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All's Well' 215 

American College Reminiscences. By the Author of "FiVE YEARS AT AN ENGLISH 

UNIVERSITY." Part 1 218 

Ammergau Mystery, The; or Sacred Drama of 1860 , 463 

A rran, Three Weeks' "Loafing" in. By CORNWALL SIMEON 496 

Artisan's Saturday Night. By PERCY GREG 285 

Boot, The, from the Italian of GIUSTI 244 

Boundaries of Science : A Dialogue 134 

Budgets of 186.0, The Two. ByW. A. PORTER 416 

Cambridge University Boat of 1860. By Q. 0. TBEVELYAN 19 

Cardross Case and The Free Church of Scotland 293 

Co-Operative Societies ; their Social and Economical Aspects. By HENRY FAWCETT . 434 

Dungeon Key, The 452 

Eastern Legend Versified from Lamartine. By the REV. C. (TENNYSON) TURNEB . . 226 

Eclipse Expedition to Spain. By PROFESSOR POLE. 406 

Elder's Daughter, The. By ORWELL 154 

English Classical Literature, The use of in the Work of Education. By the REV. 


Europe, The Future of, foretold in History. By T. E. CLIFPE LESLIE 329 

Fair at Keady. BY ALEXANDER SMITH 179 

Female School of Art ; Mrs. Jameson. By the REV. F. D. MAURICE 227 

Froude's History. Vols. V. and VI. By the REV. P. D. MAURICE 276 

Fusilier's Dog, The. By SIB F. H. DOYLE, BART 71 

Garibaldi and The Sicilian Revolution. By AUBELIO SAFFI. 235 

Garibaldi's Legion, The Youth of England to. By SYDNEY DOBELL 324 

Gold, Social and Economical Influence of the New. By HENRY FAWCETT 186 

Hints on Proposals. By AN EXPERIENCBD CHAPBRONE 403 

History and Casuistry. BY the REV. F. D. MAURICE 505 

Holman Hunt's " Finding of Christ in the Temple." 3* 

Hood, Thomas. By The EDITOR 315 

Industrial School, Annals of an. By DR. GOODWIN, DEAN OF ELY 13 

Kyloe-Jock, and the Weird of Wanton Walls. By GEORGE CUPPLES. 

Chapters i. n. 372 

Chapters m. iv , 441 



Loch-Na-Diomhair The Lake of the Secret. By GEORGE CUPPLES 21 

Mystery, The. By ORWELL 272 

Navies of France and England 249 

Our Father s Business. By the Author of " JOHN HALIFAX." 40 

Priam and Hecuba 383 

Prophecy, On Uninspired. By HERBERT COLERIDGE 309 

Papal Excommunication, The : A Dialogue . 68 

Poet's Corner : or an English Writer's Tomb. By C. A. COLLINS 128 

Question of The Age Is it Peace ? By T. E. CLIFFE LESLIE 72 

Ramsgate Life Boat ; A Rescue Ill 

Revelation, The. By ORWELL 850 

Royal Academy, The 155 

Seaside, At the. By the Author of " JOHN HALIFAX " 393 

Shelley's Life and Poetry. By The EDITOR ....... .1 838 

Shelley in Pall MalL By RICHARD GARNETT . 100 

Sleep of The Hyacinth : An Egyptian Poem. By the late DR. GEOEOE WILSON. 

Parts IV. and V. .. 120 

Sonnets. By the REV. C. (TENNYSON) TUBNER 98 

Spiritualistic Materialism. Michelet. By J. M. LUDLOW." . . . . ! 41 

Sport and Natural History, New Books of. By HENRY KINGSLEY 385 

Suffrage, The. The Working Class and the Professional Class. By the REV. F. D. 


Swiss-French Literature. Gasparin. By J. M. LUDLOW. 170 

Three Vices of Current Literature. By The EDITOR. 1 

Tom Brown at Oxford. By the Author of " TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL-DAYS " 

Chapters xvn. xvm. 52 

Chapters xrx. xx. xxi 138 

Chapters XXIL XXIIL 199 

Chapters xxiv. xxv 258 

Chapters xxn. xxvn 855 

Chapters xxvm. xxix. xxx 478 

Trevelyan, Sir Charles, and Mr. Wilson. By J. M f LUDLOW 164 

Turkey, The Christian Subjects of 452 ' 

Two Love Stories . . . 292 

Volunteer's Catechism, The. By THOMAS HUGHES. With a few Words on Butts. 

By J. C. TEMPLER 191 

Volunteering, Past and Present. By JOHN MABTINEAT; [394 

Wimbledon Rifle Meeting, 1860. By J. C. TEMPLER ' 303 

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[The Editor of MACMILLAN'S MAGAZINE cannot undertake to return Manuscripts sent to him.] 


MAY, 1860. 



NATURAL and becoming as it is to think 
modestly of the literary achievements 
of our own time, in comparison with 
certain periods of ou^ past literary his- 
tory, it may yet he asserted with some 
confidence that in no age has there heen 
so large an amount of real ability en- 
gaged in the conduct of British literature 
as at present. Whether our topmost men 
are equal in stature to the giants of 
some former generations, and whether 
the passing age is depositing on the 
shelf of our rare national classics mas- 
terpieces of matter and of form worthy 
to rank with those already there, are 
questions which need not be discussed 
in connexion with our statement. It is 
enough to remember that, for the three 
hundred publications or so which an- 
nually issued from the British press 
about the middle of the seventeenth 
century, we now produce every year 
some five thousand publications of all 
sorts, and, probing this fleeting mass of 
contemporary authorship as far round 
us and in as many directions as we can, 
in order to appraise its contents, to see, 
as I believe we should see, that the pro- 
digious increase of quantity has been ac- 
companied by no deterioration of average 
quality. Lamentations are indeed com- 
mon over the increase of books in the 
world. This, it is said, is the Mudiceval 
era. Do not these lamentations proceed, 
however, on a false view of literature, as 
if its due limits at any time were to be 
No. 7. VOL. n. 

measured by such a petty standard as 
the faculty of any one man to keep up 
with it as a reader, or even to survey it 
as a critic ? There is surely a larger 
view of literature than this according 
to which the expression of passing 
thought in preservable forms is one of 
the growing functions of the race ; so 
that, as the world goes on, more and 
ever more of what is remembered, 
reasoned, imagined, or desired on its 
surface, must necessarily be booked or 
otherwise registered for momentary 
needs and uses, and for farther action, 
over long arcs of time, upon the spirit 
of the future. According to this view, 
the notion of the perseverance of our 
earth on its voyage ages hereafter with 
a freight of books increased, by suc- 
cessive additions, incalculably beyond 
that which already seems an overweight, 
loses much of its discomfort; nay, in 
this very vision of our earth as it shall 
be, carrying at length so huge a regis- 
tration of all that has transpired upon 
it, have we not a kind of pledge that 
the registration shall not have been in 
vain, and that, whatever catastrophe 
may await our orb in the farther chances 
of being, the lore it has accumulated 
shall not perish, but shall survive or 
detach itself, a heritage beyond the 
shipwreck? In plainer argument; al- 
though in the immense diffusion of 
literary capability in these days, there 
may be causes tending to lower the 

Three Vices of Current Literature. 

highest individual efforts, is not the 
diffusion itself a gain, and is it after all 
consistent with fact that the supposed 
causes are producing the alleged effect 1 
That .there is a law of vicissitude in the 
intellectual power of a nation ; that, as 
there are years of good crop and years of 
bad crop .in the vegetable world, so 
there are ages in a nation's life of super- - 
excellent nerve and faculty, and again 
ages intellectually feeble, seems as 
satisfactory a generalization as any of 
the rough historical generalizations we 
yet have in stock ; but that this law 
of vicissitude implies diminished ca- 
pacity in the highest individuals accord- 
ing as the crowd increases, does not 
appear. The present era of British 
literature, counting from the year 1789, 
is as rich, as brilliant with lustrous 
names, as any since the Elizabethan era 
and its continuation, from 1580 to 1660 ; 
nay, if we strike out from the Elizabe- 
than firmament its majestic twin-lumi- 
naries, Shakespeare and Bacon, our 
firmament is the more brilliantly studded 
studded with the larger stars. Nothing 
but a morose spirit of disregard for what 
is round us, or an excess of the com- 
mendable spirit of affection for the past, 
or, lastly, an utter ignorance of the actual 
books of the past which we do praise, 
prevents us from seeing that many of 
the poets and other authors even of the 
great Elizabethan age, who retain their 
places in our collections, or that, still 
more decidedly, many of the celebrities 
of that later age which is spanned by 
Johnson's "Lives of the Poets," were 
but poetasters and poor creatures, com- 
pared with relative authors of the last 
seventy years. Test the matter roughly 
in what is called our current literature. 
What an everlasting fuss we do make 
about Junius and his letters ! And yet 
there is no competent person but will 
admit that these letters will not stand a 
comparison, in any respect of real in- 
tellectual merit, with many of the lead- 
ing articles which are written overnight 
at present by contributors to our daily 
newspapers, and skimmed by us at 
breakfast next morning. 

It in, therefore, in no spirit of depre- 

ciation towards our current literature, 
that we venture to point out certain of 
its wide-spread vices. The vices which 
we select are not those which might 
turn out to be the deepest and most 
radical ; they are simply those that can- 
not fail to catch the eye from the extent 
of surface which they cover. 

1. There is the vice of the Slip-shod 
or Slovenly. In popular language it 
may be described as the vice of bad 
workmanship. Its forms are various. 
The lowest is that of bad syntax, of lax 
concatenation of clauses and sentences. 
It would be easy to point out faults of 
this kind which reappear in shoals in 
each day's supply of printed matter 
from the verbs misnominatived, and the 
clumsy " whiches " looking back rue- 
fully for submerged antecedents, so 
common in the columns of our hasty 
writers, up to the unnecessarily repeated 
" that " after a conditional clause which 
some writers insert with an infatuated 
punctuality, and even the best insert 
occasionally. Should the notice of a 
matter so merely mechanical seem too 
trivial, there is, next, that form of the 
slip-shod which consists in stuffing out 
sentences with certain tags and shreds 
of phraseology lying vague about society, 
as bits of undistributed type may lie 
about a printing-room. "We are free 
to confess," "we candidly acknow- 
ledge," " will well repay perusal," " we 
should heartily rejoice," " did space per- 
mit," " causes beyond our control," " if 
we may be allowed the expression," 
" commence hostilities" what are these 
and a hundred other such phrases but 
undistributed bits of old speech, like 
the " electric fluid " and the " launched 
into eternity" of the penny-a-liners, 
which all of us are glad to clutch, to fill 
a gap, or to save the trouble of com- 
posing equivalents from the letters] 
To change the figure (see, I am at it 
myself !), what are such phrases but a 
kind of rhetorical putty with which 
cracks in the sense are stopped, and pro- 
longations formed where the sense has 
broken short? Of this kind of slip- 
shod in writing no writers are more 
guilty than those who have formed their 

Three Vices of Current Literature. 

style chiefly by public speaking ; and it 
is in them also that the kindred faults 
of synonyms strung together and of re- 
dundant expletives are most commonly 
seen. Perhaps, indeed, the choicest 
specimens of continuous slip-shod in the 
language are furnished by the writings 
of celebrated orators. How dilute the 
tincture, what bagginess of phraseology 
round what slender shanks of meaning, 
what absence of trained muscle, how 
seldom the nail is hit on the head ! It 
is not every day that a Burke presents 
himself, whose every sentence is charged 
with an exact thought proportioned to 
it, whether he stands on the floor and 
speaks, or takes his pen in hand* And 
then, not only in the writings of men 
rendered diffuse, by much speaking 
after a low standard, but in the tide of 
current writing besides, who shall take 
account of the daily abundance of that 
more startling form of slip-shod which 
rhetoricians call Confusion of Metaphor? 
Lord Castlereagh's famous l " I will not 
now enter upon the fundamental feature 
upon which this question hinges," is as 
nothing compared with much that passes 
daily under our eyes in the pages of 
popular books and periodicals tissues 
of words in which shreds from nature's 
four quarters are jumbled together as in 
heraldry ; in which the writer begins 
with a lion, but finds it in the next 
clause to be a waterspout ; in which ice- 
bergs swim in seas of lava, comets col- 
lect taxes, pigs sing, peacocks wear 
silks, and teapots climb trees. 

Pshaw ! technicalities all ! the mere 
minutiae of the grammarian and the 
critic of expression ! Nothing of the 
kind, good reader ! Words are made 
up of letters, sentences of words, all that 
is written or spoken of sentences suc- 
ceeding each other or interflowing ; and 
at no time, from Homer's till this, has 
anything passed as good literature which 
has not satisfied men as tolerably tight 
and close-grained in these particulars, 
or become classic and permanent 
which has not, in respect of them, 
stood the test of the microscope. 
We distinguish, indeed, usefully enough, 
between matter and expression, Between 

thought and style ; but no one has ever 
attended to the subject analytically with- 
out becoming aware that the distinction 
is not ultimate that what is called 
style resolves itself, after all, into man- 
ner of thinking ; nay, perhaps (though 
to show this would take some time) into 
the successive particles of the matter 
thought. If a writer is said to be fond 
of epithets, it is because he has a habit 
of always thinking a quality very pro- 
minently along with an object ; if his 
style is said to be figurative, it is because 
he thinks by means of comparisons ; if 
his syntax abounds in inversions, it is 
because he thinks the cart before he 
thinks the horse. And so, by extension, 
all the forms of slip-shod in expression 
are, in reality, forms of slip-shod in 
thought. If the syntax halts, it is be- 
cause the thread of the thought has 
snapped, or become entangled. If the 
phraseology of a writer is diffuse ; if his 
language does not lie close round his 
real meaning, but widens out in flat 
expanses, with here and there a tremor 
as the meaning rises to take breath ; if 
in every sentence we recognise shreds 
and tags of common social verbiage in 
such a case it is because the mind of the 
writer is not doing its duty, is not con- 
secutively active, maintains no continued 
hold of its object, hardly knows its own 
drift. In like manner, mixed or inco- 
herent metaphor arises from incoherent 
conception, inability to see vividly what 
is professedly looked at. All forms of 
slip-shod, in short, are to be referred to 
deficiency of precision in the conduct of 
thought. Of every writer it ought to be 
required at least that he pass every jot 
and tittle of what he sets down through 
his mind, to receive the guarantee of 
having been really there, and that he 
arrange and connect his thoughts in a 
workmanlike manner. Anything short 
of this is allowance being made for cir- 
cumstances which may prevent a con- 
scientious man from always doing his 
best an insult to the public. Accord- 
ingly, in all good literature, not ex- 
cepting the subtlest and most exuberant 
poetry, one perceives a strict logic link- 
ing thought with thought. The velocity 


Three Vices of Current Literature. 

with which the mind can perform this 
service of giving adequate arrangement 
to its thoughts, differs much in different 
cases. With some writers it is -done 
almost unconsciously as if by the 
operation of a logical instinct so power- 
ful that whatever teems up in their 
minds is marshalled and made exact as 
it conies, and there is perfection in the 
swiftest expression. So it Was with the 
all-fluent Shakespeare, whose inven- 
tions, boundless and multitudinous, 
were yet ruled by a logic so resistless, 
that they came exquisite at once to the 
pen's point, and in studying whose in- 
tellectual gait we are reminded of the 
description of the Athenians in Euripi- 
des "those sons of Erectheus always 
"moving with graceful step through a 
" glittering violet ether, where the nine 
" Pierian muses are said to have brought 
" up yellow-haired Harmony as their com- 
" mon child." With others of our great 
writers it has been notably different 
rejection of first thoughts and expres- 
sions, the slow choice of a fit per-cent- 
age, and the concatenation of these with 
labour and care. 

Prevalent as slip-shod is, it is not so 
prevalent as it was. There is more 
careful writing, in proportion, now than 
there was thirty, seventy, or a hundred 
years ago. This may be seen on com- 
paring specimens of our present lite- 
rature with corresponding specimens 
from the older newspapers and peri- 
odicals. The precept and the example 
of Wordsworth and those who helped 
him to initiate that era of our lite- 
rature which dates from the French 
Eevolution, have gradually introduced, 
among other things, habits of mecha- 
nical carefulness, both in prose and in 
verse. Among poets, Scott and Byron 
safe in their greatness otherwise 
were the most conspicuous sinners 
against the Wordsworthian ordinances 
in this respect after they had been pro- 
mulgated. If one were willing to risk 
being stoned for speaking truth, one 
might call these two poets the last of 
the great slip-shods. The great slip- 
shods, be it observed ; and, if there were 
the prospect that> by keeping silence 

about slip-shod, we should see any other 
such massive figure heaving in among 
us in his slippers, who is there that 
would object to his company on account 
of them, or that would not gladly assist 
to fell a score of the delicates with 
polished boot-tips in order to make 
room for him ? At the least, it may be 
said that there are many passages in the 
poems of Scott and Byron which fall 
far short of the standard of carefulness 
already fixed when they wrote. Sub- 
sequent writers, with nothing of their 
genius, have been much more careful. 
There is, however, one form of the 
slip-shod in verse which, probably be- 
cause it has not been recognised as slip- 
shod, still holds ground among us. It 
consists in that particular relic of the 
" poetic diction" of the last century 
which allows merely mechanical in- 
versions of syntax for the sake of metre 
and rhyme. For example, in a poem 
recently published, understood to be 
the work of a celebrated writer, and 
altogether as finished a specimen of 
metrical rhetoric and ringing epigram as 
has appeared for many a day, there 
occur such passages as these : 

" Barley's gilt coach the equal pair 

" What earlier school this grand come- 
dian reard ? 

His first essays no crowds less courtly 

From learned closets came a saun- 
tering sage, 

Yawn'd, smiled, and spoke, and 
took l>y storm the age" 

" All their lore 
Illumes one end for which strives 

all their will ; 

Before their age they march in- 

" That talk which art as eloquence 


Must be the talk of thinkers and 
of wits." 

" Let Bright responsible for Eng- 
land be, 

And straight in Bright a Chatham 
we should see." 

Three Vices of Current Literature. 

" All most brave 
In his mixd nature seemd to life 

to start, 
When English honour roused his 

English heart." 

That such instances of syntax inverted 
to the mechanical order of the verse 
should occur in such a quarter, proves 
that they are still considered legitimate. 
But I believe and this notwithstand- 
ing that ample precedent-may be shown, 
not only from poets of the last century, 
but from all preceding poets that they 
are not legitimate. Verse does not 
cancel any of the conditions of good 
prose, but only superadds new and 
more exquisite conditions ; and that is 
the best verse where the words follow 
each other punctually in the most exact 
prose order, and yet the exquisite dif- 
ference by which verse does distinguish 
itself from prose is fully felt. rAs, 
within prose itself, there are natural 
inversions according as the thought 
moves on from the calm and straight- 
forward to the complex and impassioned 
as what would be in one mood 
" Diana of the Ephesians is great," be- 
comes in another, " Great is Diana of 
the Ephesians " so, it may be, there is 
a farther amount of inversion proper 
within verse as such. Any such 
amount of inversion, however, must be 
able to plead itself natural that is, 
belonging inevitably to what is new in 
the movement of the thought under the 
law of verse ; which plea would not 
extend to cases like .those specified, where 
versifiers, that they may keep their 
metre or hit a rhyme, tug words arbi- 
trarily out of their prose connexion. If 
it should be asked how, under so hard 
a restriction, a poet could write verse at 
all, the answer is, "That is his difficulty." 
But that this canon of taste in verse is 
not so oppressive as it looks, and that 
it will more and more come to be re- 
cognised and obeyed, seems augured in 
the fact that the greatest British poet 
of our time has himself intuitively 
attended to it, and furnished an almost 
continuous example of it in his poetry. 
Repeat any even of Tennyson's lyrics, 

where, from the nature of the case, 
obedience to the canon would seem most 
difficult his " Tears, idle tears," or 
" The splendour falls," and see if, 
under all that peculiarity which makes 
the effect of these pieces, if of any in our 
language, something more than the effect 
of prose, every word does not fall into 
its place, like fitted jasper, exactly in 
the prose order. So ! and what do you 
say to Mr. Tennyson's last volume, with 
its repetition of the phrase " The Table 
Round" ? Why, I say that, when dif- 
ficulty mounts to impossibility, then 
even the gods relent, even Rhada- 
manthus yields. Here it is as if the 
British nation had passed a special 
enactment to this effect : " Whereas 
' Mr. Tennyson has written a set of 
poems on the Round Table of Arthur 
and his Knights, and whereas he has 
' represented to us that the phrase 
' ' The Round Table,' specifying the 
' central object about which these poems 
' revolve, is a phrase which no force 
' of art can work pleasingly into Iambic 
' verse, we, the British nation, con- 
' sidering the peculiarity of the case, 
' and the public benefits likely to 
' accrue from a steady contemplation of 
' the said object, do enact and decree 
' that we will in this instance depart 
' from our usual practice of thinking 
' the species first and then the genus, 
c and will, in accordance with the 
' practice of other times and nations, 
' say ' The Table Round ' instead of 
< ' The Round Table ' as heretofore." 
But this is altogether a special enact- 

2. There is the vice of the Trite. 
Here, at length, we get out of the 
region of mere verbal forms, and gaze 
abroad over the wide field of our litera- 
ture, with a view everywhere to its 
component substance. We are overrun 
with the Trite. There is Trite to the 
right hand, and Trite to the left ; Trito 
before and Trite behind ; the view is of 
vast leagues of the Trite, inclosing little 
oases of true literature, as far as the eye 
can reach. And what is the Trite ? It 
is a minor variety of what is known as 
Cant. By Cant is meant the repetition, 


Three Vices of Current Literature. 

without real belief of sentiments which 
it is thought creditable to profess. As 
the name implies, there is a certain 
solemnity, as of upturned eyes and a 
touch of song in the voice, required 
for true Cant Since Johnson's time 
there has been no lack of denunciation 
of this vice. But the Trite, as less 
immoral, or as not immoral at all, has 
with the exception, as far as we recollect, 
of one onslaught by Swift escaped 
equal denunciation. For by the Trite 
is meant only matter which may be true 
enough, but which has been so fami- 
liarised already that it can benefit neither 
man nor beast to hear or read it 
any more. " Man is a microcosm," may 
have been a very respectable bit of 
speech once ; and, if there is yet any poor 
creature on the earth to whom it would 
be news, by all means let it be brought 
to his door. But does such a creature 
exist among those who are addressed by 
anything calling itself literature ? And 
so with a thousand other such sayings 
and references "Extremes meet, sir ;" 
" You mustn't argue against the use of 
a thing from the abuse of it;" "The 
exception proves the rule ;" Talleyrand's 
remark about the use of speech ; Newton 
gathering pebbles on the sea-shore ; and, 
worst of all, Newton's apple. The next 
writer or lecturer that brings forward 
Newton's apple, unless with very par- 
ticular accompaniments, ought to be 
made to swallow it, pips and all, that 
there may be an end of it. Let the 
reader think how much of our current 
writing is but a repeated solution of 
such phrases and allusions, and let him 
extend his view from such short speci- 
mens of the Trite, to facts, doctrines, 
modes of thought, and tissues of fiction, 
characterised by the same quality, and 
yet occupying reams of our literature 
year after year, and he will understand 
the nature of the grievance. What we 
aver is that there are numberless writers 
who are not at all slip-shod, who are 
correct and careful, who may even be 
said to write well, but respecting whom, 
if we consider the substance of what they 
write, the report must be that they are 
drowning us with a deluge of the Trite. 

Translated into positive language, the 
protest against the Trite might take the 
form of a principle, formally avowed, we 
believe, by more than one writer, and 
certainly implied in the practice of all 
the chiefs of our literature to wit, that 
no man ought to consider himself en- 
titled to write upon a subject by the 
mere intention to write carefully, unless 
he has also something new to advance. 
We are aware, of course, of the objection 
against such a principle arising from the 
fact that the society of every country is 
divided, in respect of intelligence and 
culture, into strata, widening as they 
descend from the limited number oi 
highly-educated spirits at the top who 
catch the first rays of all new thought, 
down to the multitude nearest the 
ground, to whom even Newton's apple 
would be new, and among whom the 
aphorism " Things find their level " 
would create a sensation. It is admitted 
at once that there must, in every com- 
munity, be literary provision for this 
state of things a popular literature, or 
rather a descending series of literatures, 
consisting of solutions more or less 
strong of old knowledge and of common 
sentiments, in order that these may 
percolate the whole social mass. Every- 
thing must be learnt some time ; and 
our infants are not to be defrauded in 
their nurseries, nor our boys and girls 
in their school-time, of the legends and 
little facts with which they must begin 
as we did, and which have been the 
outfit of the British mind from time 
immemorial But, even as respects 
popular and juvenile literature, the rule 
still holds that, to justify increase, there 
must be novelty novelty in relation to 
the constituencies addressed ; novelty, 
if not of matter, at least of method. 
Else why not keep to the old popular 
and elementary books which, indeed, 
might often be good policy ? If one 
could positively decide which, out of 
competing hundreds, was the best exist- 
ing Latin school-grammar, what a gain 
to the national Latinity it would be, if, 
without infraction of our supreme prin- 
ciple of liberty, as applied even to gram- 
mars, we could get back to the old 

Three Vices of Current Literature? 

English plan, have Latin taught from 
that one grammar in all the schools of 
the land, and concentrate all future 
talent taking a grammatical direction on 
its gradual improvement? Returning, 
however, to current literature, more ex- 
pressly so-called to the works of his- 
tory, the treatises, the poems, the novels, 
the pamphlets, the essays, &c. that cir- 
culate from our better libraries, and lie 
on the tables of the educated we might 
show reason for our rule even here. 
Allowing for the necessity even here of 
iteration, of dilution, of varied and long- 
continued administration, ere new truths 
or modes of thought can be fairly worked 
into the minds of those who read, new 
facts rightly apprehended, or new fancies 
made effective, should we not have to 
report a huge over-proportion of the 
merest wish-wash? What a reform 
here, if there were some perception of 
the principle that correct writing is not 
enough, unless one has something fresh 
to impart. What ! a premium on the 
love of paradox ; a licence to the passion 
for effect; more of straining after no- 
velty ? Alas ! the kind of novelty of 
which we speak, is not reached by the 
kind of straining that is meant, but by 
a process very different not by talking 
right and left, and writhing one's neck 
like a pelican, on the chance of hitting 
something odd ahead ; but by accuracy 
of silent watch, by passive quietude to 
many impressions, by search where 
others have left off fatigued, by open-air 
rumination and hour-long nightly re- 
verie, by the repression again and again 
of paying platitudes as they rise to the 
lips, in order that, by rolling within the 
mind, they may unite into something 
better, and that, where now all is a dif- 
fused cloud of vapoury conceit, there 
may come at last the clearing flash and 
the tinkle of the golden drop. Think, 
think, think is the advice required at 
present by scores of hopeful writers 
injuring themselves by luxury in com- 
monplace. The freshly-evolved thought 
of the world, the wealth of new bud and 
blossom which the mind of humanity is 
ever putting forth this, and not the 
dead wood, is what ought to be taken 

account of in true literature; and the 
peculiarity of the case is that the rate of 
the growth, the amount of fresh sprout- 
age that shall appear, depends largely on 
the intensity of resolution exerted. But, 
should the associations with the word 
" novelty " be incurably bad, the expres- 
sion of the principle may be varied. It 
may be asserted, for example, that, uni- 
versally, the proper material for current 
literature, the proper element in which 
the writer must work, is the material or 
element of the hitherto uncommunicated. 
Adapting this universal expression to 
literature as broken down into its main 
departments, we may say that the proper 
element for all new writing of the his- 
torical order is the hitherto unobserved 
or unrecollected, for all new writing of 
the scientific or didactic order the 
hitherto unexplained, for all new poetry 
the hitherto unimagined, for all new 
writing for purposes of moral and social 
stimulation the hitherto unadvised. 
There may, of course, be mixture of the 

Among the forms of the Trite with 
which we are at present troubled is the 
repetition everywhere of certain obser- 
vations and bits of expression, admirable 
in themselves, but now hackneyed till 
the pith is out of them. By way of 
example, take that kind of imagined 
visual effect which consists in seeing an 
object defined against the sky. How 
this trick of the picturesque has of late 
been run upon in poems and novels 
trees " against the blue sky," mountains 
" against the blue sky," everything 
whatever "against the blue sky," till 
the very chimney-pots are ashamed of 
the background, and beg you wouldn't 
mention it ! And so we have young 
ladies seated pensively at their windows 
" looking out into the Infinite," or 
"out into the Night." Similarly there 
are expressions of speculative import 
about man's destiny and work in the 
world, so strong in real meaning, that 
those who promulgated them did the 
world good service, but parroted now 
till persons who feel their import most 
hear them with disgust. For the very 
test that a truth has fallen upon a mind 

Three Vices of Current Literature. 

in vital relation to it, is that, when 
reproduced by that mind, it shall be 
with a modification. But worse than 
the mere incessant reproduction of 
propositions and particular expressions 
already worn threadbare, are certain 
larger accompanying forms of the Trite, 
which consist in the feeble assumption 
of entire modes of thought, already ex- 
hausted of their virtue by writers in 
whom they were natural. As an in- 
stance, we may cite a certain grandiose 
habit, common of late in the description 
of character. Men are no longer men in 
many of our popular biographic sketches, 
but prophets, seers, volcanoes, cataracts, 
whirlwinds of passion vast physical 
entities, seething inwardly with un- 
heard-of confusions, and passing, all 
alike, through a necessary process of 
revolution which converts chaos into 
cosmos, and brings their roaring energy 
at last into harmony with the universe. 
Now he were a most thankless as well 
as a most unintelligent reader who did 
not recognise the noble power of thought, 
ay, and the exactitude of biographic art, 
exhibited in certain famous specimens 
of character-painting which have been 
the prototypes in this style who did 
not see that there the writer began 
firmly with the actual man, dark-haired 
or fair-haired, tall or short, who was 
the object of his study ; and, only when 
he had most accurately figured him 
and his circumstances, passed into that 
world of large discourse which each 
man carries attached to him, as his 
spiritual self, and in the representation 
and analysis of which, since it has no 
physical boundaries, all analogies of 
volcanoes, whirlwinds, and other space- 
filling agencies may well be helpful 
But in the parodies of this style all is 
featureless ; it is not men at all that we 
see, but supposititious beings like the 
phantoms which are said to career in 
the darkness over Scandinavian ice- 
plains. Character is the most complex 
and varied thing extant consisting not 
of vague monotonous masses, but of in- 
volutions and subtleties in and in for 
ever ; the art of describing it may well 
employ whole coming generations of 

writers ; and the fallacy is that all great 
painting must be done with the big 
brush, and that even cameos may be 
cut with pickaxes. 

I have had half a mind to include 
among recent forms of the Trite the 
habit of incessant allusion to a round of 
favourite characters of the past, and 
especially to certain magnates of the 
literary series Homer, Dante, Shake- 
speare, Milton, Burns, Scott, Goethe, 
and others. But I believe this would 
be wrong. Although we do often get 
tired of references to these names, and 
of disquisitions written about them and 
about them ; although we may some- 
times think that the large amount of 
our literary activity which is devoted to 
such mere stock-taking of what has 
been left us by our predecessors is a 
bad sign, and that we might push intel- 
lectually out on our own account more 
boldly if our eyes were less frequently 
retreverted ; although, even in the 
interest of retrospection itself, we might 
desire that the objects of our wor- 
ship were more numerous, and that, 
to effect this, our historians would 
resuscitate for us a goodly array of the 
Dii minorum gentium, to have their 
turn with the greater gods yet, in the 
main, the intellectual habit of which we 
speak is one that has had and will have 
unusually rich results. For these great 
men of the past are, as it were, the 
peaks, more or less distant, that surround 
the plain where we have our dwelling ; 
we cannot lift our eyes without seeing 
them ; and no length or repetition of 
gaze can exhaust their aspects. And 
here we must guard against a possible 
misapprehension of what has been said 
as to the Trite in general. There are 
notions permanent and elemental in the 
very constitution of humanity, simple 
and deep beyond all power of modifica- 
tion, the same yesterday and to-day, in- 
capable almost of being stated by any 
one except as all would state them, and 
which yet never are and never can be 
trite. How man that is born of woman 
is of few days and foil of trouble, how 
he comes from darkness and disappears 
in darkness again, how the good that he 

Three Vices of Current Literature. 

would lie does not and the evil that 
he would not still he does these and 
other forms of the same conception of 
time and death, interwoven with certain 
visual conceptions of space, and with 
the sense of an inscrutable power be- 
yond, have accompanied the race hither- 
to, as identified with its consciousness. 
Whether, with one philosophy, we re- 
gard these as the largest objects of 
thought, or, with another, as the neces- 
sary forms of human sensibility, equally 
they are ultimate, and those souls in 
which they are strongest, which can 
least tear themselves away from them, 
are the most truly and grandly human. 
Add the primary affections, the feelings 
that belong to the most common and 
enduring facts of human experience. 
In recollections of these are the touches 
that make the whole world kin ; these 
give the melodies to which intellect can 
but construct the harmonies ; it is from 
a soil of such simple and deep concep- 
tions that all genius must spring. While 
the branches and extreme twigs are 
putting forth those fresh sprouts of new 
truth and new phantasy that we spoke of, 
nay, in order that this green wealth and 
perpetual proof of life may not fail, the 
roots must be there. And so, in litera- 
ture, return as we may to those oldest 
facts and feelings, we need never doubt 
their novelty. Hear how one rude 
Scottish rhymer found out for himself 
all over again the fact that life has its 
sorrows, and, to secure his copyright, 
registered the date of his discovery : 

" Upon the saxteen hundred year 

Of God and thretty-three 
Frae Christ was born, wha bought us 


As writings testifie, 
On January the sixteenth day, 

As I did lie alone, 
I thus unto myself did say, 

'Ah ! man was made to moan." " 

3. There is the vice of the Blase. In 
its origin the mental habit which we so 
name is often healthy enough a natural 
reaction against the Trite. When the 
whole field of literature is so overrun 

with the Trite ; when so seldom can one 
take up a bit of writing and find any 
stroke of true intellectual action in it ; 
when, time after time, one receives even 
periodicals of high repute, and, turning 
over their pages, finds half their articles 
of a kind the non-existence of which 
would have left the world not one whit 
the poorer here an insipid mince of 
facts from a popular book, there a 
twitter of doctrinal twaddle which 
would weary you from your feeblest 
relative, and again a criticism on the 
old "beauty and blemish " plan of a 
poem\long ago judged by everybody for 
himself; when, worse still, the Trite 
passes into Cant, and one is offended 
by knobs and gobbets of a spurious 
theology, sent floating, for purposes half- 
hypocritical, down a stream of what else 
would be simple silliness, little wonder 
that men of honest minds find it sound 
economy to assume habitually a sour 
mood towards all literature whatever, 
allowing the opposite mood to develop 
itself rarely and on occasion. As it may 
be noted of bank-cashiers that, by long 
practice, they have learnt to survey the 
crowd outside the counters rather re- 
pellingly than responsively, saving their 
recognitions for personal friends, and 
any respect or curiosity that may be left 
in them for the bearers of very big 
warrants, so, and by a similar training, 
have some of the best of our profes- 
sional critics become case-hardened to 
the sight of the daily world of writers, 
each with his little bit of paper, be- 
sieging their bar. It is not, however, of 
this natural callousness that we speak, 
but of a habit of mind sometimes be- 
ginning in this, but requiring worse 
elements for its formation. No one can 
look about him without marking the 
extent to which a blase spirit is infecting 
the British literary mind. The thing 
is complained of everywhere under a 
variety of phrases want of faith, want 
of earnest purpose, scepticism, poco- 
curantism. For our purpose none of 
these names seems so suitable as the one 
we have chosen. On*the one hand, the 
charges of " want of faith " and the like 
are often urged against men who have a 


Three Vices of Current Literature. 

hundred times more of real faith and of 
active energy directed by that faith than 
those who bring the charges, and, when 
interpreted, they often mean nothing 
more than an intellect too conscientious 
to surround itself with mystifications 
and popular deceits of colour when it 
may walk in white light. On the other 
hand, by the term Blase we preserve a 
sense of the fact that those to whom the 
vice is attributed, are frequently, if not 
generally, men of cultivated and even 
fastidious minds, writing very carefully 
and pertinently, but ruled throughout 
by a deplorable disposition ruinous to 
their own strength, restricting them to 
a petty service in the sarcastic and the 
small, and making them the enemies of 
everything within their range that mani- 
fests the height or the depth of the 
unjaded human spirit. There are, in- 
deed, two classes of critics in whom this 
vice appears the light and trivial, to 
whom everything is but matter for witty 
sparkle ; and the grave and acrimonious, 
who fly more seriously, and carry venom 
in their stings. But, in both, the forms 
in which the spirit presents itself are 
singularly alike. 

One form is that of appending to 
what is meant to be satirized certain 
words signifying that the critic has 
looked into it and found it mere im- 
posture. " All that sort of thing " is a 
favourite phrase for the purpose. " Civil 
and religious liberty and all that sort 
of thing," " High art and all that sort 
of thing," "Young love and all that 
sort of thing ; " is there anything 
more common than such combinations ? 
Then, to give scope for verbal variety, 
there are such words as "Dodge" and 
"Business" equally suitable. "The 
philanthropic dodge," "The transcen- 
dental business" so and otherwise are 
modes of thought and action fitted with 
nicknames. Now, nicknames are legiti- 
mate ; the power of sneering was given 
to man to be used ; and nothing is more 
gratifying than to see an idea which is 
proving a nuisance, sent clattering away 
with a hue and cry after it and a tin- 
kettle tied to its tail. But the practice 
we speak of is passing all bounds, and 

is becoming a mere trick whereby a few 
impudent minds may exercise an in- 
fluence to which they have no natural 
right, and abase all the more timid in- 
telligence in their neighbourhood down 
to their own level For against this 
trick of nicknames as practised by some 
of our pert gentry, what thought or fact 
or interest of man, from the world's be- 
ginning till now, so solemn as to be 
safe? The "Hear, heaven, and give 
ear, earth, business," " the Hamlef s 
soliloquy dodge," "The death of Socrates, 
martyrdom for truth, and all that sort 
of thing " where lies our security that 
impudence, growing omnipotent, may 
not reach even to heights like these ? 
Already that intermediate height seems 
to be attained, where systems of thought 
that have occupied generations of the 
world's intelligence, and swayed for 
better or worse vast lengths of human 
action, are disposed of with a sneer. 
Calvinism figures, we dare say, as " the 
brimstone business ; " German philo- 
sophy as " the unconditioned, and all 
that sort of thing;" and we may hear 
ere long of one momentous direction of 
recent scientific thought under the con- 
venient name of "the Darwin dodge." 
It would be unjust to say that the 
blase spirit, wherever it is most respect- 
ably represented, has yet become so im- 
pertinent as this ; and it would be 
peevish to suppose that a spurt of fun 
may not ascend occasionally as high as 
Orion himself without disrespect done 
or intended. But the danger is that, 
where this sarcastic mood towards con- 
temporary efforts of thought or move- 
ments of social zeal is long kept up 
without some counteracting discipline, 
the whole mind will be shrivelled into 
that one mood, till all distinction of 
noble and mean is lost sight of, and the 
passing history of the human mind 
seems but an evolution of roguery. A 
Mephistopheles going about with a 
Faust, whistling down his grandilo- 
quence and turning his enthusiasms 
into jest, is but the type perhaps of a 
conjunction proper to no age in parti- 
cular ; but, necessary as the conjunction 
may be, who is there that would not 

Three Vices of Current Literature* 


rather have his own being merged in 
the corporate Faust of his time than be 
a part of the being of its corporate 
Mephistopheles ? 

A more refined manifestation of the 
blasS spirit in literature occurs in a 
certain cunning use of quotation-marks 
for the purpose of discrediting maxims 
and beliefs in popular circulation. A 
word or a phrase is put within inverted 
commas in a way to signify that it is 
quoted not from any author in particular, 
but from the common-place book of that 
great blatant beast, the public. Thus I 
may say " Civil and Religious Liberty," 
or "Patriotism," or "Toleration," or 
"The Oppressed Nationalities," or " Phil- 
anthropy," hedging the words in with 
quotation-marks, so as to hint that I, 
original-minded person that I am, don't 
mean to vouch for the ideas correspond- 
ing, and indeed, in the mighty voyage of 
my private intellect, have left them far 
behind. Nowhere again there is a fair and 
a foul side of the practice. Frequently 
by such a use of quotation-marks all 
that is meant is that a writer, having no 
time to adjust his own exact relations to 
an idea, begs the use of it in a ge'neral 
way for what it seems worth. Farther, 
when more of scepticism or sarcasm is 
intended, the practice may still be as 
fair as it is convenient. When an idea 
has been long in circulation, ten to one, 
by the very movement of the collective 
mind through so much of varied subse- 
quent circumstance, it has ceased to 
have that amount of vital relationship 
to the rest of present fact and present 
aspiration, which would make it fully 
a truth. No harm, in such a case, in 
indicating the predicament in which it 
stands by quotation-marks ; no harm if 
by such a device it is meant even to ex- 
press more of dissent from the idea 
than of remaining respect for it. The 
visible inclosure within quotation-marks 
is, as it were, a mechanical arrangement 
for keeping a good-for-nothing idea an 
hour or so in the stocks. The crowd 
point their fingers at him ; the constables 
will know him again; if he has any 
shame left, he will be off from that 
parish as soon as he is released. But all 

depends on the discretion exercised by 
those who award the punishment. Where 
a Regan and a Cornwall are the justices, 
it may be a Kent, a King's Earl and 
messenger, that is put in the stocks ; 
and, after his first protest, he may bear 
the indignity philosophically and suffer 
not a whit in the regard of the right- 
minded. And so the office of deciding 
what are and what are not good-for- 
nothing ideas is one in which there may 
be fatal mistakes. After all, the funda- 
mental and hereditary articles in the 
creed of the blatant beast are pretty 
sure to have a considerable deal of truth 
in them ; and, though it may do the old 
fellow good to poke him up a bit, there is 
a point beyond which it may be dangerous 
to provoke him, and sophisms had better 
keep out of his way. In other words, 
though there may be notions or feelings 
whose tenure is provisional, there are 
others which humanity has set store by for 
ages, and shows no need or inclination to 
part with yet. It is the habit of heartlessly 
pecking at these that shows a soul that 
is blase. Of late, for example, it has 
been a fashion with a small minority of 
British writers to assert their culture by 
a very supercilious demeanour towards 
an idea which ought, beyond all others, 
to be sacred in this island the idea of 
Liberty. Listen to them when this 
notion or any of its equivalents turns 
up for their notice or comment, and the 
impression they give by their language 
is that in their private opinion it is little 
better than clap-trap. By all that is 
British, it is time that this whey-faced 
intellectualism should be put to the 
blush ! Like any other thought or 
phrase of man, Liberty itself may stand 
in need of re- definition and re-explica- 
tion from time to time ; but woe to any 
time in which the vague old sound shall 
cease to correspond, .in the actual feelings 
of men, with the measureless reality of 
half their being ! From the depths of 
the past the sound has come down to 
us ; after we are in our graves, it will 
be ringing along the avenues of the 
future ; and,* in the end, it will be 
the test of the worth of all our philoso- 
phy whether this sound has been inter- 


Three, Vices of Current Literature. 

cepted or deadened by it, or only trans- 
mitted the clearer. 

What in the blast habit of mind 
renders it so hurtful to the interests of 
literature is that it introduces into all 
departments a contentedness with the 
proximate i.e. with the nearest thing 
that will do. For real power, for really 
great achievement in any department of 
intellect, a certain fervour of feeling, a 
certain avidity as for conquest, a certain 
disdain of the petty circle within the 
horizon as already one's own and pos- 
sessed, or, at the least, a certain quiet 
hopefulness, is absolutely necessary. 
But let even a naturally strong mind 
catch the contagion of the Blase, and this 
spur is gone. The near then satisfies 
the near in fact, which makes History 
poor and beggarly ; the near in doctrine, 
which annuls Speculative Philosophy, 
and provides instead a miscellany of 
little tenets more or less shrewd ; the 
near in imagination, which checks in 
Poetry all force of wing. I believe that 
this defect may be observed very exten- 
sively in our current literature, appear- 
ing in a double form. In the first place, 
it may be seen affecting the personal lite- 
rary practice of many men of ability and 
culture far beyond the average, making 
them contented on all subjects with that 
degree of intellectual exertion which 
simply clears them of the Trite and 
brings them to the first remove from 
commonplace, and thus gradually un- 
fitting them for the larger efforts for 
which nature may have intended them. 
There are not a few such men the 
cochin-chinas of literature, as one might 
call them ; sturdy in the legs, but with 
degenerate power of flight. In the 
second place, the same cause produces 
in these men and in others, when they 
act as critics, a sense of irritation and 
of offended taste (not the less mean 
that it is perfectly honest), when they 
contemplate in any of their contempo- 
raries the gestures and evolutions of an 
intellect more natural than their own. 
The feeling is that which we might sup- 
pose in honest poultry, .regarding the 
movements of unintelligible birds over- 
head : such movements do, to the 

poultry, outrage all principles of correct 
ornithology. Let any one who wishes to 
understand more particularly what is 
meant, read the speeches of the Grecian 
chiefs in council in Shakespeare's Troilus 
and Cressida, and then fancy how such 
a bit of writing would fare at the hands 
of many literary critics now-a-days, if 
it came before them anonymously. But 
it is, perhaps, as an influence tending to 
arrest the development of speculative 
thought, specially so called, that the 
distaste of so many literary men for all 
but the proximate operates most detri- 
mentally. The habit of sneering at 
Speculative Philosophy, both name and 
thing, is a world too common among men 
who ought to know better. Sneer as 
they wOl, it has been true from the 
beginning of time, and will be true to 
the end, that the precise measure of the 
total intellectual worth of any man, or 
of any age, is the measure of the specu- 
lative energy lodged in him, or in it. 
Take our politics of the last twelve 
years for an example. How much of 
British political writing during these 
years has consisted in vilification of 
certain men, basing their theories on 
elementary principles, and styled vision- 
aries or fanatics accordingly. And yet, 
if matters are well looked at, these very 
men are now seen to be the only men 
who apprehended tendencies rightly ; 
they alone have not had to recant ; and it 
is the others the from-hand-to-mouth 
men in politics that have turned out 
to be the fools. 

Besides other partial remedies that 
there may be for the wide-spread and 
still spreading vice of the Blase among 
our men of intellect, there may be in 
reserve, for aught we know, some form 
of that wholesale remedy by which 
Providence in many an instance hitherto 
has revived the jaded organisms of na- 
ti6ns. Those fops in uniform, those 
loungers of London clubs and ball- 
rooms, who a few years ago used to be 
the types to our wits of manhood grown 
useless, from whose lips even their 
mother-speech came minced and clipped 
for very languor of life, how in that 
Eussian peninsula they straightened 

Annals of an Industrial School. 


themselves, the fighting English demi- 
gods ! So, should it be the hap of our 
nation to find itself ere long in the 
probation of some such enterprise of all 
its strength, some such contest of life 
and death, as many foresee for it, little 
doubt that then, in the general shaking 
which shall ensue, fallacies shall fall 
from it like withered leaves, and meaner 
habits with them, and that then many 
a mind to which at present the sole 
competent use of pen or of voice seems 
to be in a splenetic service of small 

sarcasm, shall receive a noble rouse for 
the service of the collective need. 
Meanwhile, in these yet clear heavens, 
and ere the hurricane that shall 
huddle us together, it is for any one 
here and there that, having escaped 
the general taint of cynicism, has 
dared to propose to himself some 
positive intellectual labour of the old 
enthusiastic sort, to secure the neces- 
sary equanimity by pre-arranged and 
persevering solitude. 



THIS is the age of Reformatories. Judges 
have declared against the cruelty of 
awarding punishment, pure and simple, 
to those whose chief fault is utter neglect 
on the part of parents to teach them 
what is right, or diligence in teaching 
them what is wrong ; clergymen have 
preached about it ; Parliaments have 
voted upon it ; public meetings have 
declared against it ; and, what is still 
better, Mettray, Eedhill, and hundreds 
of other similar asylums for young 
offenders have been established, and 
have proved the possibility, and there- 
fore the duty, of reforming wicked boys, 
instead of severely whipping them, or 
confining them, or hanging them. So 
undeniable has the reformatory success 
been, that we have almost ceased to hear 
the plausible argument that bad boys 
are taken care of, and honest boys 
left to shift for themselves. The Chris- 
tian instinct of warm-hearted people 
long ago burst through the bonds which 
this argument would lay upon them, and 
we now see clearly enough that the 
argument was only a sophism, and that 
the real answer to it is this, that wicked- 
ness is like a loathsome infectious dis- 
ease, and that to remove a bad case to a 
hospital is not more a kindness to the 
patient tban an act of mercy to the 

neighbourhood. In fact, the reforma- 
tory work done by the removal of a 
clever ringleader in wickedness is by no 
means to be measured by the benefit 
conferred upon the individual, or even 
by the advantage to society of having 
one knave transformed into an honest 
member ; the reformation of your one 
knave probably breaks up a gang, and 
leaves many lads, who would soon have 
joined the same, to the more wholesome 
influence of their pastors and masters. 
Within my own knowledge, the estab- 
lishment of a reformatory for a small 
number of boys, in the neighbourhood 
of a large city, almost immediately pro- 
duced a marked effect upon the number 
of juvenile offenders brought before the 

Nevertheless, every one feels that a 
poor lad who has never been committed 
for stealing, but who is quite willing to 
steal if occasion offer, a young thief in 
posse, if not in esse, can make out some- 
thing of a case against reformatories, if 
they shut their doors upon him as not 
being one of the brotherhood. Have 
you ever been in gaol ? No. Are you 
a thief 1 Not by profession ; and my 
doings in that way have been so small, 
that I scarcely deserve the name. I am 
afraid, my boy, you will not do for us. 


Annals of an Industrial School 

But' I have no objection to steal, says 
the boy ; only try me, and you shall see 
that there is no bar' to my becoming a 
thief to-morrow. WelLl then, become 
a thief, and, when you are one, we will 
take you in hand and reform you. 

There is enough of truth in this cari- 
cature to make us glad that there are 
such things as Industrial Schools and 
Boys' Homes, to which the passport is 
not juvenile crime, but rather juvenile 
misery and misfortune. In every large 
town there are many boys, (and girls 
too, but I am just now speaking of boys 
only,) who are not actually criminal, but 
who are very likely to become so in 
times of idleness, and under the influ- 
ence of temptation ; boys of careless 
parents, or bad parents ; neglected 
orphans ; boys brought up to no trade ; 
boys who have never been educated, 
and who have forgotten even the smat- 
tering of knowledge they picked up at 
the National School ; boys who play at 
pitch-farthing at street-corners, or hang 
about railway stations, or sweep cross- 
ings, or beg for coppers, or do anything 
else but work for an honest livelihood 
and prepare themselves to become honest 
men and good citizens. What is to be 
done for these boys ? The true phi- 
losophy of healing involves a careful 
diagnosis of the disease. In this case 
the disease is, fundamentally, idleness ; 
the cure is industry. The idleness is in 
a certain sense artificial ; the industry 
must be artificial too. 

It was with such views as these that, 
some years ago, a school was established 
in Cambridge under the name of the 
Cambridge Industrial School. The 
school is still flourishing and virtually 
doing a great deal of reformatory work. 
Many boys who have been in the school 
are now well-conducted, useful men ; 
not a few owe to the training which 
they received in it all that they are, and 
all that they hope to be ; and some of 
the cases are so striking, that I think 
many of the readers of this magazine 
will thank me for putting before them 
the simple annals of several poor lads, 
which they will find a little further on. 

First, however, let me say a few words 

concerning the organization and princi- 
ples of the school in question. I will 
speak of it with as much fairness as it 
is possible to speak of a child which 
you have nursed from the cradle, and 
watched through its teething and other 
infantine infirmities ; and I would say, 
once for all, that whatever good may 
have come from the school, is due (under 
God) not so much to its organization as 
to the superlative qualifications for the 
work possessed by the master whom 
the managers were fortunate enough to 
engage. I can easily conceive that an 
Industrial School might be established, 
apparently upon the same principles as 
that at Cambridge, and might fail ; I 
have no doubt there are fit men to be 
had ; only it must be remembered that 
the qualifications are such as can hardly 
be gained by training. With regard to 
some of them, at least, the Industrial 
Master nasdtur, nonjit. 

The Cambridge Industrial School was 
intended for about fifty boys ; and some- 
times there have been more than that 
number in attendance generally less. 
The boys may or may not be criminal ; 
inquiry is of course made as to their 
history, but no objection is made on the 
score of not possessing a certificate of 
roguery. The school has about six or 
seven acres of land in spade cultivation, 
and the working of this land is the 
staple occupation of the boys. The land 
is a cold, heavy clay, and was terrible 
work for the boys at first, but it has 
given way to the general reformatory 
influences of the place, and is now very 
manageable and docile. Besides the 
field or garden work, there is a work- 
shop, in which the boys pursue the use- 
ful occupations of tailoring and shoe- 
malung, becoming snips or snobs accord- 
ing to fancy only with this reservation, 
that a boy who has once declared for 
breeches must not go to boots, nor vice 
versd. Further industrial employment 
is afforded by a greenhouse ; and there 
is a tolerably extensive piggery, the in- 
mates of which may indeed be regarded 
as liberal subscribers to the institution, 
and amongst its most energetic sup- 

Annals of an Industrial School. 


In addition to the workshop there 
are two rooms, one for the feeding of 
the mind, the other for that of the body. 
A certain portion of each day is passed 
in the former occupation, under the 
direction of the head master, who also 
superintends the outdoor exercises : this 
is an essential part of the plan the 
field and the school act and react upon 
each other : the former is the place for 
exercising the virtues instilled in the 
latter, and any faults which appear in 
the field can be discussed and corrected 
afterwards in school. The feeding is 
confined to one meal a day. I do not 
mean that the boys eat no more ; but 
only one meal is provided by the school 
funds ; whatever else is necessary to 
support life the boys are obliged to find 
for themselves. Hence there is small 
temptation to enter the school on false 
pretences ; the 'maxim of little to eat 
and plenty to do, serves to keep away 
all those who are not proper subjects 
for the school's reformatory operations. 

The admission is entirely free. In 
the first instance a small payment was 
demanded, twopence per week ; and I 
remember the case of a sturdy boy who 
used to work hard at the school all day, 
and then go round with' a basket calling 
" Trotters ! " through the streets of Cam- 
bridge all the evening in order to pay his 
school fee and find himself breakfast. 
But it was found, after some experience, 
that the payment of twopence per week 
excluded many whom it was desirable, 
above all others, to take in, and the 
rule was consequently abrogated. 

The school has been open for exactly 
ten years. During this period nearly 
400 boys have passed through it. These 
have remained for longer or shorter 
times, as the case might be : some 
attending regularly for several years ; 
others coming for a time, then getting 
work, then returning when work is not 
to be had a practice encouraged by the 
managers, and which has kept many a 
poor lad out of mischief ; others again 
coming for a short time, and then, on 
finding steady work and cleanliness too 
much for them, returning to idleness 
and dirt. Thirty-four are serving her 

Majesty in the army, four been in the 
navy, and for about fifty of the number 
good situations have been obtained 
through the agency of the school. I 
cannot pretend to weigh exactly the 
successes against the failures. I know 
that there have been some of the latter ; 
I am equally sure that there have been 
many of the former ; and even in cases 
which have seemed to the Committee 
and the master of the school quite 
hopeless, a seed may have been sown 
which should spring up afterwards. 
This was, in fact, demonstrated to be 
possible in a recent case. A boy, regarded 
as nearly the worst whom the school 
ever received, and who left the school 
without giving the master a ray of hope, 
has lately written a letter from India, in 
a new strain, announcing that he is 
acting as Scripture Reader in the regi- 
ment to which he belongs. 

I ought to add that, during the ten 
years of the school's existence, the 
head master has been the same, the 
shoemaking-master the same, and the 
tailoring-master was the same till about 
two years ago, when he obtained prefer- 
ment in one of the Colleges. 

So much for the machinery of the 
school, which I have compressed into 
as short a space as possible, for fear of 
wearying my readers, and in order that 
I may carry them forward as quickly as 
possible to that part of my paper upon 
which I chiefly depend for any interest 
which may attach to it. .Indeed I should 
hardly have ventured to draw the still 
life picture of the school, if I had not 
been able to add some sketches of the 
inmates, which can hardly fail to be 
deemed striking : some portions of the 
sketches will have the additional interest 
of being drawn by the industrial boys 

I proceed, then, to give an account of 
some of the boys, and extracts from letters 
received from them : there are obvious 
reasons why, in some cases, the names 
ought not to be given, and, as they 
cannot be given in some, I shall with- 
hold them in all, designating the boys 
by their numbers on the school register. 

No. 1 was the first boy admitted 


Annals of an Industrial School. 

into the school. He was an intelligent 
lad, and as such had been employed as 
a monitor and assistant in a national 
school ; he was tempted by his love of 
books to steal a considerable number 
belonging to the school library, and was 
ejected in consequence. Having thus 
lost his character, he was picked up by 
the Industrial School, where he re- 
mained for about two years, when he 
was recommended, in consequence oi 
his good conduct, to a tradesman in 
Cambridge. He remained in his place 
for some time, but told his master from 
the first that he longed to be a soldier, 
and intended to enlist when a favour- 
able opportunity offered. At length 
the opportunity came ; he enlisted into 
a cavalry regiment, and served in the 
Crimea. From the Crimea he wrote 
the most affectionate letters to the 
school, with many inquiries about his 
former companions. At the close of 
the war he was selected as the best- 
behaved private of his regiment, and 
sent by Government for two years' 
training at Maidstone. He went out 
to India, after training, as corporal, and 
last Christmas was promoted to be a 
sergeant. I have several letters from 
him before me ; in the last, dated 
Bangalore, he says, " I suppose the 
" school has a very smart appearance 
" by this time ; and I do hope I shall 
" not be very long before I am able to 
" give you a call." In the midst of 
the terrible Crimean winter campaign, 
he found time to use his pencil, with 
which he was very clever, in drawing a 
picture of himself in his sentry-box, 
which he sent to the school with many 
inquiries concerning his old companions. 
No. 16 is a very remarkable case. 
My first acquaintance with this boy 
was made, after evening service, in a 
church in which I had been officiating. 
He was brought before me as a culprit 
who had been disturbing the congrega- 
tion, and was admonished and dis- 
charged. He was then quite a small 
boy. Growing in time to be a big one, 
he became a very rough and turbulent 
fellow ; was known as the bully of the 
parish, and was the terror of all quiet 

and orderly folks. A country girl, who 
lived as servant with the master, threat- 
ened to give notice if No. 16 continued 
in the school ; she said he was " such a 
terrible swearer, she could not bear it." 
This was when he first came to the 
school. After being in the school some 
months, he and another boy (now a 
well-conducted married man) had a 
pitched battle. The master threatened 
expulsion, and they both begged par- 
don, and promised to do so no more. 
Better days now dawned; No. 16 im- 
proved rapidly ; in less than two years 
from his admission he was made assist- 
ant to the master, and proved most 
valuable. His great strength and de- 
termined character were now turned to 
good account ; the roughest boys found 
their master; and when they told him 
that they could not leave off this or 
that bad habit, he was able to tell them, 
from his own experience, that he knew 
it could be done. He now became a 
Sunday-school teacher. This was too 
much for his old companions ; they 
ridiculed him in the streets and pelted 
him. He told the master in distress, 
that he must turn upon them some day 
and give them a thrashing or get one 
himself. The master told him all his 
work would be undone if he did so, and 
No. 16 restrained himself. Any one 
who knew the fire of his eye and the 
strength of his arnis would understand 
how much this forbearance cost him. 
One day a Colonial Bishop saw him 
superintend a large gang of boys at 
field-work, was struck by his skill and 
power of managing his gang, and car- 
ried him off as a catechist to his distant 
diocese, where he is doing honour to 
his Christian profession, and justifying 
the Bishop's choice. I have abundance 
of this young man's letters before me 
as I write. They are in every way well 
written; they are full of affection to 
his old master ; they breathe a genuine 
missionary spirit ; and, as I read them, I 
say to myself, Is it possible that the 
writer can be that wild, fierce lad, 
whom I remember ten years ago in the 
Industrial School ? 

No. 24, a fatherless lad, came to the- 

Annals of an Industrial School. 


school a cripple, with crutch and stick. 
He was set upon his legs by the manage- 
ment of a medical gentleman, who 
chanced to call at the school and per- 
ceived his crippled condition ; and the 
same operation was performed for him 
morally by the school : for, having 
earned a good character, he was ap- 
prenticed to a, shoemaker, by help of 
friends whom he had gained while at 
school, and on easy terms in conse- 
quence of the knowledge of the trade 
which he had already acquired. He is 
now a good workman, subscribes annu- 
ally to the funds of the Industrial 
School, and helps to support a widowed 

No. 57 was a boy the complete treat- 
ment of whose case was beyond the 
appliances of the school. He had a bad 
father and an infamous stepmother, who 
taught him to steal. He came to the 
school as young as he could be according 
to the rules, but had already been in 
prison several times, and was in prison 
several times afterwards. Altogether, 
the magistrates had him before them 
fifteen times ! Notwithstanding this 
tendency to steal, the master of the 
school spoke well of him, and, indeed, 
said that anything might be done with 
him, if he had only a fair chance ; and 
when I went to see him in gaol, the 
governor gave the same account of him. 
The Industrial School had not the means 
of taking him entirely away from tempta- 
tion for a time, and the good resolutions 
of the day were destroyed by the bad 
home influences of evening. After he 
had been liberated from gaol for the last 
time, a lady who supports a private 
reformatory, and whose name may be 
guessed by those versed in reformatory 
matters, but shall not be revealed by 
me, offered, in the kindest manner pos- 
sible, to recaive a boy from the school if 
there chanced to be one to whom an 
absolute removal to a reformatory would 
be beneficial. No. 57 was precisely the 
case and accordingly No. 57 was sent to 
the reformatory, in which he realized 
the best hopes that had been formed of 
him, and was eventually sent to America 
by his kind patroness, where he is 
No. 7. VOL. n. 

flourishing as assistant in a large store, 
and seems likely to become a substantial 
Yankee. This boy frequently writes to 
the schoolmaster, in the most affectionate 

I give one extract. Referring to a 
domestic affliction in the master's family, 
he writes : " Gladly would I, if I was 
near you, do all I could for you ; for I 
feel as if I could not do enough to pay 
for the kindness you always showed 
towards me : but I hope that I shall 
have the privilege, some time, to do you 
a kindness in some way or other. I was 
very glad indeed to hear such an account 

of . I know it must cheer your 

heart to hear such accounts of the boys 
that have been with you, and that you 
can see that your labour was not in vain. 
I know that, had you cast me off, I should 
have been a ruined man." 

No. 60 is the son of a shoemaker in 
Cambridge, a first-rate workman, who 
had an unfortunate dislike to maintain 
his wife and family, and positively went 
to prison, and afterwards to the Union 
workhouse, rather than support them. 
The boy was very ill-behaved at times, 
intensely fond of smoking, and much 
addicted to bad language. However, he 
improved very considerably ; and at 
length, through the efforts of the Com- 
mittee, was apprenticed in Her Majesty's 
navy. He writes to the master with the 
same warm affection that characterises 
other letters of which I have spoken ; 
and in one of his letters, from Plymouth, 
he says, " I should very much like to 
come to Cambridge for two days, but I 
shall not have money enough, as I am 
very happy to tell you that I have done 
what I know I am right to do ; that is, 
to assist my mother, which I have felt 
a great deal since I have been at sea ; 
and I feel just as well as if I had the 
money myself, for I should only spend 
it in waste, and be no better for it. I 
have left <! every month for this last 
twelvemonth, and that is ever since I 
have been able to do so." 

No. 68 was a very bad boy before 
coming to the school. The master fre- 
quently received petitions that he would 
punish him for misdemeanours in the 



Annals of an Industrial School. 

parish where he lived; but this he 
deemed to be out of his jurisdiction ; on 
one occasion, however, having committed 
an offence within the school, the master 
punished him very severely, and with 
such effect as to produce an almost im- , 
mediate change. The lad's improvement 
was so marked, that the master felt 
justified in recommending him to a lady 
who wanted a servant-boy ; he behaved 
himself in the situation admirably for 
three years, when he moved into a 
family of distinction, in which he is now 
living as butler, and from which he 
writes to the master with the feelings 
of a child to a father. 

No. 110 came from the National 
School, to the great joy of the master of 
the same, who said that he could do 
nothing with him, nor make anything 
of him. However, he soon began to 
improve, and was taken out by Arch- 
deacon Mackenzie, a warm friend of the 
school and member of its committee, to 
Natal, where he is still, and bears an 
excellent character. 

This list might be easily extended; 
but it is already long enough for its 
purpose. It does not prove that an in- 
dustrial school is sufficient to reform all 
the juvenile population of a large town, 
but it certainly shows that it may be the 
means of doing great good, and that 
many a poor lad may be lifted by its 
agency from misery and criminality. 
Nor is it a very expensive piece of 
machinery : the only expensive part of 
the business is the supply of dinners to 
the boys, and, in the most extravagant 
times, I believe, the price of a dinner 
has never mounted up to twopence, 
while it has generally been much less : 
and the appearance of the school on the 
outskirts of the town, with its neat 

garden, and busy workshops, and gan 
of industrious lads, whose faces show 
clearly enough what would be their 
employment if they were not there, is a 
sight 'to do good to the hearts of the 
inhabitants. Indeed, if the question 
be regarded from an entirely financial 
point of view, and the expense of the 
school be set against 4he expense of 
prosecuting the boys and keeping them 
in gaol, I have no doubt that an indus- 
trial school far more than pays itself. 
Yet, after all, the success turns very 
much upon .the master, as might be ex- 
pected from the reason of the thing, and 
as any one would perceive, who visited 
the Cambridge Industrial School, or 
who examined the letters which I have 
had before me while writing this paper, 
and from which I have given a few ex- 
tracts. It is the combination of extreme 
kindness of heart, and true Christian 
devotion to a great work, with a clear 
head and iron determination to be 
obeyed, that can alone ensure success. 
It is manifest from their own letters, 
that every one of the boys, whose cases 
I have chronicled above, look upon the 
master as their father, and upon the 
school as the home of their best feel- 
ings. The same sentiment has ever 
pervaded the school. Poor lads ! many 
of them never knew much of parental 
kindness and of home affections, until 
they found these blessed influences 
there. What is to be done, said I one 
day to an Inspector of Schools, who was 
bemoaning the depravity of much of the 
juvenile population in his district 
what is to be done to bring about an 
improvement ? We must find a number 
of men, was the answer, like the master 
of your Industrial School. 




IN accordance with a custom established for some years past, the following 
lines were written, by request, before the event of the contest. Whether they 
had a Tyrtaean effect may be doubted: their prophetic attributes cannot be 
denied. The allusions are of a local nature, but the general interest excited by 
the race may justify their insertion. It may be well to remind our readers of the 
names of the oarsmen, and their position in the boat. 

1. S. HEATHCOTE, Trinity. 6. B. N. CHERRY, Clare. 

2. H. J. CHAYTOR, Jesus. 7. A. H. FAIRBAIRN, Trinity. 

3. D. INQLES, Trinity. 8. J. HALL, Magdalene. 

4. J. S BLAKE, Corpus. j T- MoRLAND Trinit 

5. M. COVENTRY, Tnmty Hall. Coxswain. 

SOME twenty years back, o'er his nectar one day, 

King Jove to the gods in Olympus did say : 

" Degenerate mortals, it must be confessed, 

Grow smaller each year round the arm and the chest. 

Not ten modern navvies together could swing 

The stone that great Ajax unaided did fling. 

They may talk of their Heenan, and Paddock, and Nat : 

I'll bet that old Milo, though puny and fat> 

Would thrash the whole ring, should they come within range, 

From slashing Tom Sayers to sneaking Bill Bainge. 

I've determined, as plain as the staff of a pike, 

To show to the world what a man should be like. 

Go fetch me some clay : no, not that common stuff, 

But the very best meerschaum and fetch me enough. 

I'll make eight hearty fellows, all muscle and bone, 

Their average weight shall be hard on twelve stone ; 

With shoulders so broad, and with arms so well hung, 

So lithe in the loins, and so sound in the lung ; 

And because I love Cambridge, my purpose is fixed, I 

Will make them her crew in the year eighteen sixty." 

Stand by me, dear reader, and list to my song, 
As our boat round Plough-corner comes sweeping along. 
I'll point out each hero, and tell you his name, 
His college, his school, and his titles to fame. 
No fear of a crowd ; towards the end of the course 
They have left all behind but a handful of horse. 
To keep at their side on the gods you must call 
For the wind of a tutor of Trinity Hall. 

One stroke, and they're on us. Quick ! Left face and double ! 
Look hard at the bow ; he is well worth the trouble. 


The Cambridge University Boat of 1860. 

'Tis Heathcote, the pride of First Trinity Club, 
The boast of our eight, and the tale of our tub. 
No Oxonian so gay but will tremble and wince 
As he watches the oar of our gallant Black Prince. 

Who can think on that morn without sorrow and pain 
"When valour proved futile, and skill was in vain ? 
As they watched the light jerseys all swimming about, 
The nymphs of the Thames, with a splash and a shout, 
Cried, " Thanks to rude Boreas, who, wishing to please us, 
Has sent to our arms Harry Chaytor of Jesus." 

Next comes David Ingles, and long may he live, 
Adorned with each laurel our river can give. 
Had the Jews seen our David but once on the throne, 
They would not have thought quite so much of their own. 
Deign then to accept this my humble petition, 
And make me your chief and your only musician : 
And so, when you've passed, as you will do with ease, 
I'll sing you, my David, a Song of Degrees. 

Oh, blame not the bard if at thought of his section 
The blood in his temples with vanity tingles : 
"Who would not dare deeds worth a world's recollection 
With a sergeant like Heathcote, a corporal like Ingles. 

Old Admiral Blake, as from heaven he looks down, 
Bawls out to his messmates " You lubberly sinners, 
Three cheers for my namesake ! I'll bet you a crown 
He'll thrash the Oxonians as I thrashed the Mynheers." 

Here's Coventry next, but not Patmore, no, no ! 
Not an " angel " at all, but a devil to row. 
Should Louis Napoleon next August steam over, 
With scarlet-breeched Zouaves, from Cherbourg to Dover, 
We'll send him to Coventry : won't he look blue, 
And wish he was back with his wife at St. Cloud ? 

A problem concerning the man who rows six, 
Puts many high wranglers quite into a fix : 
James Stirling himself, as he candidly owns, 
Can't conceive how a Cherry can have thirteen stones. 

But oh for the tongue of a Dizzy or Cairns, 
Thou fairest and strongest of Trinity's bairns, 
To tell how your fellow-collegians in vain 
Of the veal and the Peter-house pudding complain, 
Of the greasy old waiters, and rotten old corks, 
And the horrors that lurk 'twixt the prongs of the forks. 
Men point to your muscles, and sinews, and thews, sir, 
The wonder and envy of many a bruiser ; 
And say that our grumbling exceeds all belief, 
So well have you thriven on Trinity beef. 

But how shall I worthily celebrate you, 
The hope of our colours, the joy of our crew ? 
Shall I sing of your pluck, or the swing of your back, 
Or your fierce slashing spurt, most redoubtable Jack ? 
The world never saw such a captain and cargo 
Since Jason pulled stroke in the good ship the Argo. 
And oh, when you pass to the mansions above, 
Look down on your Cambridge with pity and love I 

Loch-na-Diomhair The Lake of the Secret. 21 

Then, on some future day of disaster and woe, 

When the wash surges high, and our fortunes are low, 

When Oxford is rowing three feet to our two, 

And victory frowns on the flag of light blue, 

Oh, then may our captain in agony call 

On the 'varsity's guardian angel, Jack Hall ! 

You may search the whole coast from Land's End to North Foreland, 
But where will you find such a steersman as Morland ? 
Just look at him peering, as sharp as a rat, 
From under his rum little shaggy black hat. 
Let all honest Cambridge men fervently pray 
That our pet Harrow coxswain, for once in a way, 
Though as valiant a sergeant as any we know, 
On Saturday next may show back to the foe. 

So at night, when the wine-cups all mantling are seen 
(Whatever the mantling of wine-cups may mean), 
With your temper at ease, and your muscles unstrung, 
And your limbs 'neath the table right carelessly flung, 
As you press to your lips the beloved nut-brown clay, 
So cruelly widowed for many a day : 
Oh, then as one man may the company rise, 
With joy in their hearts, and with fire in their eyes, 
Pour out as much punch as would set her afloat, 
And drink long and deep to our conquering boat ! 

March 24th, 1860. 



I. necessary plans of departure. A sudden 

HOW WE SET OUT FOR IT ICKERSON occurrence had just rendered that de- 

^P j parture indispensable, nay, required that 

it should be immediate ; if possible, with- 

DOWN on the little rustic landing-pier out even the delay we now made ; above 

before Inversneyd Hotel, by Loch- all, without so much as re-entering the 

Lomond edge, my friend Tckerson and door of the hotel. Yet not only was 

I had sought a few minutes' breathing- our modest bill to be settled, and the 

time for private consultation in an few travelling encumbrances of one of 

unexpected dilemma ; which, however us to be regained from the lobby -table ; 

absurd, was real. Ere many more we had also to consider our first steps of 

minutes elapsed, our present refuge escape, the most critical of all, and for a 

would be taken from us ; though at brief space to deliberate as to the precise 

that instant it was the sole spot, round track that must be taken, by now recur- 

the noisy falls made classical by Words- ring to our only clue in the matter. This 

worth, and the noisier place of entertain- clue was to be found in the letter of 

ment for tourists, where we could hope our mutual friend, Moir from London, 

to hear each other, or arrange our whom we were to join at a certain spot 

Loch-na-Diomhair The Lake of the Secret. 

which he thus indicated and described : 
the letter was fortunately in my posses- 
sion still, and over it were we here 
holding council On Ickerson's part, 
with the help of " a few post-jentacular 
inhalations," as he in his colossal manner 
was pleased to phrase it, "from that 
fragrant weed which so propitiates 
clearness of thought, and tends to pro- 
mote equanimity in action." For me, 
I was too conscious of the energy our 
situation demanded, to share any such 
indulgence. The action/ not the equa- 
nimity, was what our peculiar circum- 
stances then required. As the prompt 
cigar to the contemplative meerschaum, 
so were we to each other. 

" To think," broke out my companion, 
meditatively, "that he should have taken 
the same direction as ourselves joining 
these snobbish pedestrians, too, at such 
an early hour and without Mrs. Blythe 
and the other ladies, whom " 

" Whom, you may depend upon it," 
I interrupted with impatience, "the 
droskies from the Trosachs Inn will 
bring up behind him, in ten minutes 
more, luggage and all. Then, do you see 
that smoke yonder, through the haze on 
the water?" I pointed emphatically 
down the lake. "That is the first 
steamer from Balloch, of course, which 
will soon pour on this spot a whole mob 
from Glasgow yes, Glasgow" repeated 
I, significantly eyeing my friend "I 
now see it all ! He expected Glasgow 
friends, don't you recollect? He ex- 
pected one in particular have you 
forgot whom ? " And it was evident, 
despite Ickerson's wished-for equanimity 
(strictly speaking, a disposition to im- 
promptitude in cases of action), that he 
began to shudder; while my own un- 
easiness did not prevent me from push- 
ing the advantage thus obtained over 
his too lethargic nature. " Yes ; it was 
M'Killop, whom he must have come 
on to meet, and to concert with as to 
choice of summer quarters. The moment 
the steamer's paddles are heard, he'll 
be down to welcome him M'Killop 
will see us at once, even if Trellington 
Blythe should not both will recog- 
nise us both be surprised both be on 

the scent. After which, all is of course 

" Horrible ! True. Very disagree- 
able and awkward, I must say," re- 
sponded my friend ; for once lowering 
that censer-like appurtenance of his, with 
one of his least phlegmatic or pro- 
vokingly-placid expressions of counte- 
nance. "For really, after all Dr. Blythe's 
own openness and manifest inclination 
to our society, we did leave him some- 
what abruptly, perhaps, at the Trosachs 
yesterday forenoon ; without making 
him aware, either, of the intention, 
which, by the way, my dear Brown," 
remarked Ickerson gravely, " I did not 
know till you stated it just before. 
Much less, that Moir had described his 
whereabouts to you." 

A mild reproach was designed, but I 
affected unconsciousness of it ; not even 
smiling as I echoed this remorseful 
strain. "The worst of it was," I re- 
minded him, "it might seem a base 
advantage to take, that we walked off on a 
Sabbath afternoon, when the doctor and 
his family were absent at kirk, as be- 
came his public character and standing. 
I do not understand a Gaelic service, 
however orthodox my turn of mind, 
whereas you, you know, though sus- 
pected of latitudinarian views, are quite 
familiar with the tongue." At this 
home-thrust, again did Ickerson wince : 
he looked uncomfortably over his 
shoulder to the Inversneyd Hotel, where 
our learned fellow-citizen and late inn- 
mate at the Trosachs was despatching 
breakfast, all unconscious of our abject 
vicinity to him : then in front, toward 
the growing vapour which brought 
M'Killop, he gazed with a dismay far 
more apparent. 

The truth was, I had felt doubtful 
up to the last moment of Ickerson. 
Happily, Sundays do fall amongst the 
Trosachs, and after unintentionally en- 
countering the Blythe party there, we 
had availed ourselves without much con- 
sideration of that circumstance, together 
with our needing no vehicles, to take far 
more than the proper seventh-day's 
journey in advance of our estimable 
acquaintance. I myself had inferred, 

Loch-na-Diomhair The Lake of the Secret. 


too hastily, that he was to retrace his 
steps toward the direction of Loch Tay 
and Dunkeld. A most estimable person 
is Dr. Trellington Blythe, F.S.A. and 
Ph.D. Heid. ; and at home we knew 
him particularly well, but never had 
suspected him of the condescension of a 
Highland tour, or of his betaking himself 
to fishing ; much less of his looking out 
for good, retired summer quarters for 
himself and family, "in some secluded 
district of the mountain country, con- 
tiguous to water within reach of agree- 
able acquaintance yet not hackneyed, 
not hackneyed, sir." Such, neverthe- 
less, had been his confidential words to 
us, in MacGregor's baronial-looking 
hostelry by Loch-Katrine, while we 
took our last evening rummer of Glen- 
Dronach toddy near him he confining 
himself, as usual, to soda-water, and 
several times, with a frown, sniffing at 
the nicotine odour of Ickerson's clothes. 
For it must be said that the latter is 
singularly regardless of people's pre- 
judices, even in sundry other uncouth 
traits : yet, strangely enough, there is a 
favour for him none the less universal 
among his acquaintances, Dr. T. B. in- 
cluded ; still more, perhaps, Mrs. T. B., 
a very pretty-looking woman with highly 
aesthetic tastes. When agreeable society 
was referred to, that lady had not failed 
to glance our way ; as if it were a pity 
we were but pedestrianizing in a trans- 
ient manner, without aim or purpose 
beyond an occasional day's fishing near 
the road. In fact, we had not indicated 
any purpose at all. Far from Ickerson's 
knowing at the time that we had one, I 
was aware of his easy temperament, his 
too-passive or too-transient disposition, 
over which a superior will possessed 
great influence ; and even to him also, 
I had as yet concealed my knowledge of 
our friend Moir's discovery ; I had ex- 
pressed an interest in the same scenery, 
towards Dunkeld, which the Blythes 
had in contemplation, with a similar 
desire to behold the tomb of Eob Eoy 
in passing, and probably explore the 
Tude vicinity of Loch Earn, then to wit- 
ness the Celtic games of St. Fillan's. The 
reality was, I well knew the difficulty 

of escape from that peculiar instinct, if 
once set upon our track, which pertains 
to one whom I may call a philanthropic 
Beagle delicacy forbidding the word 

Yet here was Trellington Blythe again, 
after all my pains, most imminently at 
hand in the hotel coffee-room, snatch- 
ing a hasty luncheon before he issued 
forth. Genially fraternizing with a whole 
band of eager tourists from the road, 
whose knapsacks, and wide-awakes, and 
volumes of Scott and "Wordsworth, had 
scared us both as they rushed in upon 
the debris of our glorious Highland 
breakfast ; though Ickerson had only 
gazed his supine dismay, indiscrimi- 
nately regarding ^them, till I perceived 
the direr apparition behind, and drew 
him with me in our retreat by an op- 
posite door. Somewhat unprepared for 
immediate renewal of active measures 
we were, it must be owned ; at least in 
my friend's case. Since Ickerson's per- 
sonal vigour and capacity for exertion, 
combined with a singular faculty for 
abstinence when needful, are propor- 
tionate to his stature and his thews, 
rendering, perhaps, indispensable on his 
part those few ruminative whiffs. I 
could well have spared, certainly, that 
formal replenishment of a meerschaum 
resembling a calumet, that careful re- 
placement of the ashes, and that scru- 
pulous ignition, that studious conscious- 
ness of every fume. Was it possible 
that he had hesitated to support me, till 
I had fortunately recollected the certain 
advent of M'Killop that very day ? did 
a hankering still possess him after the 
Egyptian fleshpots of Mrs. Blythe and 
her elegant cousins, heedless of the doc- 
tor's own educational theories, and his 
feeling remarks on^nature ? Could he so 
forget what was at stake in the prospect 
of that delicious solitude which Moir 
had lit upon, and to which at that mo- 
ment we alone possessed the key? Could 
it possibly enter into his mind to avoid 
further ambiguity in the affair by his 
usual absurd candour, and, for the sake 
of future relations with the Trellington 
Blythes, to propose allowing them the 
opportunity, so much after their own 


Loch-na-Diomliair The Lake of the Secret. 

hearts, of sharing our expected delight 1 
I declare, if so, that then and there 
I could savagely have quarrelled with 
him, despite our long, close friendship, 
had not the simple fact about Mr. 
M'Killop saved me. The editor of the 
Daily Tribune is a man whom, though 
I dislike, I do not fear. Whereas the 
intense repugnance towards him, almost 
the superstitious dread, entertained by 
Mark Ickerson, with all his equanimity, 
is something unaccountable. We were 
both aware that Mr. M'Killop had a 
wife and many daughters, that the par- 
liamentary season was just about over, 
and the dearth of news to be made up 
for by sporting matters alone ; so when 
it struck me like a flash of lightning 
that he too was on the outlook for 
summer quarters, with the desire to 
lodge his family where the Tribune 
might still be cared for amidst his own 
race and original language, need it be 
wondered that I avowed the conviction 
to Ickerson, or that Ickerson was utterly 
overcome ? 

Urged by haste, though inwardly 
triumphant, I had but to take out again 
our London friend's epistle from Loch- 
na-Diomhair ; and for Ickerson's benefit, 
while he suspended his meerschaum 
anxiously, to retrace the considerate 
chart of our way which the postscript 
contained. Its first bearings and guide- 
marks were identically before us from 
that spot, far over amongst the sinewy 
mountain-shoulders which press from 
westward on the lake, reflected below 
more softly; above, too, in the Alps of 
Arrochar that overpeak these, remote 
beyond record even in that magic mirror. 
It was a blessed picture still farther in 
the unseen background, which the letter 
itself conjured up ; the ecstatic affirma- 
tion from Frank Moir of an absolute 
Highland Arcadia undetected by guide- 
books, which, allowing for some acci- 
dental rose-colour of a personal kind, 
he was not yet too much cockneyfied to 
appreciate ; while, to us, in our holiday 
escape from rote and toil, from the 
weary hack-round and daily trouble, it 
was a precious refreshment to hear of. 
To one of us, lately fagged to the ut- 

most, and bitterly disciplined by expe- 
rience, it was a longing, desperate 
necessity of the very life and brain, 
the heart and soul. We now certified 
ourselves there, that we had only to 
ferry across forthwith, then hold those 
peaks upon a certain side, and then the 
way afterwards was scarcely to be mis- 
taken ; until we should perceive that 
other mountain, of shape unique and 
indubitable position, which oversha- 
dowed the very entrance to the secluded 
glen of the Macdonochies. I myself, 
pure Goth as I was, had some practice 
in Highland wanderings ; as to Ickerson, 
he was an Islesman, familiar from youth 
with the tongue of the Gael as with his 
school Latin or college Greek, almost his 
daily German ; claiming distant Celtic 
blood, actually pretending, in his slow, 
elephantine, Teutonic humour, to " have 
a Tartan," with right to the kilt and 
eagle's feather. Though stamped by 
name and aspect, as by inner nature, 
true son of old Scandinavian sea-riders, 
having the noble viking always in him, 
sometimes the latent Berserkir like to 
flash forth ; otherwise inexperienced, 
impractical, the mere abstracted quietist, 
who might use the eyes and help the 
active energy of a companion that knew 
the world. 

It was hot already. By the nearest 
route it must be a good long afternoon's 
tramp for us, even from the opposite 
shore of Benlomond, where the light 
would glare and the heat would broil 
above us. As for fear of weather or 
change, it had varied too long before, 
for any fear of it now from me; although 
Ickerson looked up into the very bright- 
ness of the sky, and away at some mist 
about the distinctest mountains, saying, 
in his queer, quasi-prophetic manner, 
that it would rain to the west. I only 
set some store by him in the matter, be- 
cause he nonetheless resolutely put up his 
pipe, stretched his large limbs, and rose, 
professing himself ready. He, indeed ! 
the half-abstracted, half-sagacious mon- 
ster of good luck that I have often found 
him ! it was not lie who needed to go 
back into the hotel lobby, facing the full 
glare of those spectacles in the sunlight, 

Loch-na-Diomhair The Lake of the Secret. 


"before we could again abscond ; for he 
invariably had borne his fishing-rod 
about with him in the compendious 
form of that huge walking-staff which he 
now struck upon the ground so promptly, 
and his plaid was always over his shoul- 
der, enveloping in one fold that simple 
oilskin parcel of his. It was not he who 
had become responsible to the waiter for 
our charges, nor who had left his well- 
compacted impedimenta, with every essen- 
tial of pedestrian comfort, on the hall 
table ; and despite his solemn conster- 
nation at the reiterated statement, it is 
impossible to get rid of a belief, from one 
scarce perceptible twinkle of his eye, 
that the hypocrite enjoyed it. " Being 
conscious of my own deficiences in the 
practical department," said he, with that 
provoking Orcadian accent, occasionally 
similar to a snuffle, "I have to guard 
against them, or rather, my worthy 
aunt and cousins have ;" uplifting and 
surveying his whole outfit with an air of 
innocent satisfaction. " But would he 
the doctor, I mean seeing you alone, my 
dear Brown, do you think, be so eager to 
accost you as you suppose 1 To wish to 
that is, to persevere in having you of 
his party that is to say, I as you feel 
it disagreeable perhaps he may not, in 
fact, care for your proximity and a a 
what particular exploration you might 

It is true, as the fellow naively showed 
himself aware, Ickerson was the chief 
magnet to the Blythe party in general ; 
nor am I sure to this moment that the 
inestimable doctor likes me at bottom. 
Well knowing, therefore, that I could 
trust myself alone, even with Trellington 
Blythe, I at once cut the knot by pro- 
viding that my companion should forth- 
with skirt the lake towards the ferry- 
boat, while I, at every hazard, would 
boldly rush up to the hotel. Struck by 
a sudden thought at Ickerson's depar- 
ture, however, I lingered instead upon 
the pier, as the steamer came plashing 
up. Already the doctor's voice was 
conspicuous from the other side, hurry- 
ing down among other tourists ; but the 
sharp-prowed " Lady-of-the-Lake " was 
quicker than he or I had calculated; 

sending an eddy before her to my very 
feet, when, with a roar, and a hiss, and 
a clamour, she came sheering round to 
float broadside in. The first face I dis- 
cerned was that of M'Killop of the 
Daily Tribune, high on one paddle-box, 
through the steam which contrasted 
with his sandy whiskers, carpet-bag 
and umbrella in hand, firmly looking 
for the shore. His eye was in a mo- 
ment upon me ; but the motley crowd 
were scarce begun to be disgorged, ere, 
with a presence of mind I still plume 
myself upon, I had turned and hastened 
up in the van of the confusion ; meet- 
ing right in the face, of course, as if 
newly arrived from Glasgow, with the 
good Trellington Brythe. It was the 
Avork of a few seconds to make my hur- 
ried and broken explanation as he stum- 
bled against me to mutter a reply to 
his alarmed inquiry about Ickerson to 
nod assent to his hope of further leisure 
together in the hotel and then, leaving 
him to meet his friend, to dash in for my 
indispensables, settle with the waiter, 
and once more escape, breathless, to the 
ferry-place. There the stout-built High- 
land boatmen-, of pudgy shapes, with 
foxy faces, were at their oars. Ickerson 
was seated, calmly waiting, beside a 
rustic female of carroty locks, with 
a suckling baby, whose unreserved 
relations he mildly regarded, in his 
own placid, all-tolerating, catholic man- 
ner, dabbling his hand alongside the 

Why must we thus wait still, though? 
Why, leaving the honorary stern sheets 
vacant, and the helm untouched, must 
I pass into the forepart also, beside 
nursing rustics? "Somepotty is be 
coming," it seems, from the boatman, " off 
impoartanze." Was the place bespoken 
then? Was it engaged beforehand? 
They stare at me. " Aye, shis two day, 
Hoo, Aye!" "Some superior person," 
gravely whispers Ickerson, " from Glas- 
gow, by the steamer." We were mutu- 
ally appalled by the same idea : especially 
as I saw M'Killop's form with the doctor, 
over the edge of the little pier, absorbed 
in conversation behind the throng, in 
rear of a whole stalking procession of 


Loch-na-Diomhair The Lake of the Secret. 

females with, hats and feathers. Doubt- 
less the M'Killop family ! All so near, 
that, as we crouch, we can hear the 
sound of their voices across the smooth 
little bay; and, out of sight myself, I 
can still see the distincter, warmer reflec- 
tion of that able editor's gestures nay, 
what was not before visible, the very 
under-brim of his furry hat, the bristling 
sandiness under his full chin. He had, 
on a sudden, a staring-white paper in 
his hand, and, looking at it curiously, 
gave it to Trellington Blythe, who 
peered into it also ; till they both looked 
round and round. Yet, to our joy, we 
were unobserved; indeed,as they were de- 
parting towards the hotel, we saw further 
proof that it was none of them the boat 
delayed for. A groom, from the steamer, 
carrying a gun-case, leading two fine 
setters, came and stepped into the boat 
beside us : followed at greater leisure by 
two gentlemen, both young, one plea- 
sant-faced and with a military air, his 
accents English ; the other under-browed 
and Celtic, though darkly handsome, 
with a sulky hauteur, jealous and half 
awkward, that checked his friend's de- 
signed complaisance towards ourselves. 
We sat unheeded, therefore; while at 
an abrupt motion of the hand from that 
glooming young Gael, the rowers 
stretched out, and he took the tiller to 
steer us across for Bealach-More. 
Strange to say, it was the Englishman 
who wore a costume like a chief's, 
while the Celt wore the fashionable 
garb of to-day. 

" The Macdonochy, nevertheless," 
murmured Ickerson to me. " The young 
chief, that is to say, of the Macdono- 
chies. " I stared. It was to the land of the 
Macdonochies we were bound. " Which ? " 
I whispered back " He with the kilt 
and feather ? " " No. With the long 
Noah's-ark frock-coat, the peg-top trou- 
sers, the Zouave cap, and first-rate boots 
on that starboard sole of which, dis- 
played so unconsciously, you perceive in 
small nails the advertisement of ' Dun- 
can and Co., Princes Street, Edin- 
burgh. 3 " There was in Ickerson, as I 
hinted, a slow, subterranean, subacid 
humour; and he noticed things unex- 

pectedly. I leant back, musing on the 
doubtful likelihood of Loch-na-Diomhair 
remaining an oasis long ; while the Mac- 
donochy sulked at us, and talked loud 
to his better-bred companion, using 
French phrases ; then once or twice 
superciliously drawled to the boatmen 
a hideous sentence of authority, inter- 
spersed with what seemed a Gaelic 
oath ; to which they, rowing, droned 
humbly back. 

As we leapt upon the other shore of 
Loch-Lomond, the road lay before us ; 
wild enough at best; parting, within 
sight, to a wilder one, up a stern pass, 
through which brawled a headlong river. 
At the parting, stood a well-equipped 
dog-cart, waiting. But neither help nor 
guidance was I inclined to, even from 
the looks of the best-mannered friend of 
the Macdonochies ; and in the wilder of 
the two ways I recognised the "short 
cut," of which Moir's letter spoke. 
Ickerson, after another of his mystical 
looks overhead and up the mountains, 
silently acceded. So we escaped from 
the Macdonochy also, and took the short 
cut by the pass. 



WILD, grim, desolate, it was soon, as 
the sternest valley of Eephidim. Away 
on either hand, drearier in their very 
formlessness, began to slant without 
sublimity the worn grey hill-sides, from 
waste to waste. Chaotic shatterings 
and tumblings here and there, driven 
back upon forgotten Titans, had long 
come to an end in utter stillness ; where 
the lichen and moss were the sole living 
things, creeping insensibly over some 
huge foremost boulder, bald and blind 
with storm that had been. In the sultry, 
suffocating heat of that Glen-Ogie, the 
very rocks gave out a faint tinkling, as 
when calcined limestone cools slowly ; 
nothing else sounded but our own feet, 
slipping or crackling. For Ickerson was 
especially taciturn, yet in haste ; nor at 
the same time abstracted, as I could have 
pardoned his becoming. Thus his un- 

Loch-na-Diomhair The Lake of the Secret. 


social inood annoyed the more ; no sneer 
at Ossian, nor lure to the pipe, or to the 
flask of Glenlivet I bore, could draw him 
out. The fellow's tone and manner be- 
came positively uncomfortable, when, 
grasping me by the arm with a hand which 
is like a vice, he bade me turn and look 
along Glen-Ogie. "We were in the bot- 
tom of it. There was nothing particular 
to see. That way the other also, to- 
wards which he kept that staff of his 
pointed like a divining rod was but 
a wild, inarticulate, rugged ascent, with 
dry rifts and gullies on both sides, 
a wrinkling off through stony beds of 
vanished torrents into unknown chasms ; 
then up, as where avalanches had rolled 
down, or volcanic eruptions had passed. 
Where had the hazy sweltering sun re- 
treated ? Where were our own shadows 
where the clouds on what side, the 
east, west, north, or south and which 
the vista of Glen-Ogie we had descended, 
which the perspective of it we were yet 
to ascend ? To tell the truth, for all I 
know, we might then have steadily pro- 
ceeded backward, even passing the last 
nondescript clachan of human burrows 
as a new one, and reaching Loch-Lomond 
as if it were our lake in prospect, till we 
ferried across to the supposed welcome 
of Moir, and should find the embrace of 
Trellington Blythe, with the exulting 
recognition of M'Killop ! For a moment 
I was in Ickerson's hands : so that if he 
had smiled, I could have dashed him 
from me. But in the most earnest 
spirit of companionship, which never 
shall I forget, he thrust his staff before 
him like a sword, and without a word 
we rushed upward together. One glimpse 
was all I wanted now of the double- 
headed summit of Ben-Araidh, with its 
single cairn of stones. 

At length, with something like a cry 
of satisfaction, my friend sprang up 
before me from the rocky trough, out 
upon a heathery knoll. Beside us was 
a small round mountain-tarn, fed by a 
quick little burn from above, which again 
stole out into wide-rolling moor. Over 
its own vast brown shoulder I caught 
sight of the bare grey top I looked for ; 
slightly swathed, between, with a slight 

wreath of mist. Here we quenched 
our thirst ; here we gave ourselves up, 
at ease, to the untroubled rapture of the 
pause at that high spot, our journey's 
zenith. The rest was plain before us ; 
and Ickerson took out his meerschaum 
once more, and smoked tranquilly again. 
Too well does he meditate, my friend 
Ickerson, and pour forth at length the 
tenor of his meditations ; in rhapsody 
that takes indeed the colour of sublime 
phenomena around him, yet too much 
assimilates to the other vapour he 
breathes forth, till it is apt to lull one into 
dreams. Had it not been to avoid this, 
I do not think, in circumstances still re- 
quiring care, that I should have been 
tempted to join my rod together and 
leave him a little, to try the upward 
course of the brook. To him, forsooth, 
it may be the easiest thing to put away 
inveterate thoughts at will : they never 
haunted or terrified him. There was 
always a fund of latent power in the 
fellow, which he never troubled himself 
to draw upon ; because, perhaps, he was 
six feet two without his shoes, with a 
bone, muscle, and length of arm that set 
him above need of much sparring prac- 
tice with our friend Francalanza. I 
soon heard him, but in the distance ; 
his eyes closed, his incense ascending, 
his knees up eventually, as I looked 
over my shoulder, raising by turns his 
delighted feet, in real enjoyment of the 
glorious hush with the supposition, 
doubtless, that the silent pea-coat beside 
him was a drowsy companion. Alas ! 
ye dogging remembrances, ye jading and 
worldly consciousnesses ye could not 
so easily be left. I followed the upward 
vein of the brook, in its deep water- 
course, broken and fern-fringed ; and 
it is strange, though childish, how a few 
minutes, which self-control could not 
compose to peace, will glide away in 
puerile sport and device. Rest ! rest, 
said wo ? Flight from thought, or from 
the pertinacity of words and artifices ? 
No 'tis a new, eager, wild refuge of 
pursuit, exultingly compensative by re- 
venge for what you have feared and fled 
from before : pitiless in its first savage 
longings for the scent, the chase, capture, 


Loch-na-D iomhair The Lake of the Secret. 

Mood, and for bootless relentings after. 
Soon the zest grows unsatisfied : you 
would fain be lulled away more tho- 
roughly, on, on, by some strong salmon- 
rush into deeper abysses instead of 
upward to the dribbling source of min- 
nows and tadpoles rather outward to 
the frith and sea, among old former 
hazards and contentions. Suddenly, too, 
the very dragon-fly lost its charm the 
paltry trout scorned me in their turn, 
ceasing to rise at all. What was it? 
Ah. I had thought as much. Thunder 
in the stifling air thunder in those 
bronze-like tints of the mountain- 
shoulders, and in the livid cloud beyond 
Ben Araiclh ; though his summit still 
showed the distincter, above a snow- 
white shroud on the lower cleft. 

Mist had been spreading unawares 
below, but the living burn rushed all 
the livelier down beside me, a certain 
clue to regain the tarn and if I had 
all at once felt a slight uncertainty of re- 
collection about our friend's road-map, 
my recent ascent above the obscurer at- 
mosphere was fortunate for the moment. 
Composedly enough, therefore, I was 
about to verify my impressions by Moir's 
careful letter, when I was greatly an- 
noyed to find it was no longer in my 
possession. Ickerson's thoughtless habits 
occurred to me, and a redoubled anxiety 
now urged the precipitate speed I at 
once put forth to rejoin him, down the 
course of the stream ; impatient of every 
turn by which it wound, now glittering 
upward to a levin-flash, now sullenly 
plunging downward from the thunder- 
echoes. Not for myself did I shudder 
then, but for him him, Ickerson, my 
heedless friend, doubly dear to me in 
those moments of remembrance. For 
well did I know what was the character 
of a Highland " speat " from the hills. 
The welter and roar of its foaming outlet 
was along with me, neck and neck, 
among the mist and the wind-stirred 
bracken, right to the shore of that wild 
black tarn, sulkily splashing where dry 
heath had been. Heavens ! Was my 
foreboding realized so darkly ! Not a 
trace of him he was gone his very 
couching-place obliterated and flooded. 

I shouted ; a hope striking me. He 
had most probably underrated my ex- 
perience or presence of mind. What 
extravagant conceptions might he not 
form, indeed, of my possible course of 
conduct fancying me still on my way 
apart ; yet himself never thinking ot 
that clue which the stream had supplied 
me. If he were wet, he had no flask of 
Glenlivet to support him, as I still had ; 
and with one more hasty gulp from it, 
I took the hill, dashing after him ; once 
or twice positively sure of the traces of 
his great, huge-soled, heavy and soaking 

Over the heathery brow, down to the 
sheltered hollow of a fresh rivulet ; for 
I thought his voice came up to me, sten- 
torian, through the blast. At all events, 
some distance off, there was in reality 
the fern-thatched roof of a hut to be 
descried ; scarce distinguishable but for 
a slight wreath of smoke, curling against 
the misty mountain-breast. I shouted, 
too, as I made for it. Some shepherd's 
shealing, of course, or hunting bothy, 
lodged in that secluded covert ; for 
which he had doubtless sped in supposed 
chase of me ! This much I could have 
sworn of poor Ickerson. 

Alas ! Utterly still and deserted it 
stood ; not a voice answering mine as I 
sprang in. Ickerson would have stayed 
there, hoping for help, if his foot had 
ever crossed the threshold. So did not 
I, however. The fancied smoke had 
been but a wreath of mist ; I marked 
only for an instant the weird and obso- 
lete aspect of the uncouth hermitage, 
manifestly built long ago, over the very 
cataract of a boiling torrent ; at once 
bridge and dwelling, but for ages left 
solitary, like a dream of the bewildering 
desert. Then I turned to speed back 
again, at least with the certainty that 
Ickerson had not reached so far. 

Powers above ! Was I certain of any- 
thing, though 1 Why, as I climbed 
again, to return glad to feel now the 
mist cleared why did I reach the same 
hill-brow so slowly this time, though 
with all my energies on the strain; 
rising at last, too, amidst such a hissing 
storm-blast ? I could see far, from ridge 

Loch-na-Diomhair The Lake of the Secret. 


to ridge of grey bent-grass, islanded in 
mist along, up, through shimmering 
water-gully and shaded corrie. "Where 
was I going what was that, yonder, so 
slowly letting the vapour sink from it ; 
as a gleam of watery sunlight clove in, 
shearing aside the upper clouds 1 A 
cairn of stones solitary on a bare grey 
rocky cone, riven and rifted. I was on 
the mountain-shoulder itself, making 
hard for the top of Ben-Araidh ! 

A shudder for myself, it must be con- 
fessed, ran through me. For a brief 
space of time I dropped my head, giving 
way to some unmanly depression of heart. 
Quickly I felt, however, that after all I 
was not lost. I had only escaped beyond 
track, and those dogging thoughts were 
at my ear no longer. Taking out my 
small watch-seal compass, I carefully 
surveyed the point in view, studying the 
precise bearings, and taking fresh deter- 
mination in with the act. Giving up 
Ickerson, well-nigh for a few minutes 
forgotten, I took a new course ; and 
steadily, but rapidly, for bare hope of 
life, began to plunge direct down for 
that spot disdained so lately that un- 
couth and mysterious booth of unknown 

Staggering down for it at last in vain, 
slipping, sometimes reeling on, then 
squelching into a quagmire, I yielded in 
the end. I collected myself to perish. It 
was warm, positively warm below there, 
beside the marshy navel of that hollow 
in the valley, of which I had not before 
seen the least likeness. There, soft white 
lichens and emerald heaths, and pale 
coral-like fungous water-growths, were 
marbled and veined together, into a 
silent whirl of fairy moss, lovelier than 
any sea-shell of Singapore. I looked at 
it, seeing not only how beautiful, but 
how secret it was. A great secret it 
began to tell me as I sat. It was Loch- 
na-Diomhair, I thought, which we had 
so foolishly been in quest of. There was 
perfect welcome, and peace, and our 
friend Moir so that I could have slept, 
"but that a little black water-hen, or a 
dab-chick, out of a contiguous pool, 
emerged up suddenly, with a round 
bright eye, squeaking at me, and not 

plopping down again. By the expression 
of its eye, I saw that it was Ickerson, 
and I clutched my rod, summoning up 
the last strength for vengeance ; with 
stupid fancy, too, that I heard behind 
me, in the wind, voices, yelps of dogs, 
bloodhounds, led on by some one who 
had lost the trail. 

As in a dream, there came to my very 
neck the grip of a hard hand ; before I 
could once more stumble onward. While 
close at my ear there panted a hot breath, 
followed by a harsh voice that woke me 
up, but had no meaning in its yells. 
Was I thought deaf, because I under- 
stood it not, or because I stared at a 
bare-headed, red-haired savage in a 
rusty philabeg, with the hairiest red legs 
imaginable, clutching me : for whom I 
natter myself, nevertheless, that in ordi- 
nary circumstances I was more than a 
match. As the case stood, I yielded up 
my sole weapon with a weak attempt at 
scorn only, Needless were his feUow- 
caterans, springing and hallooing down 
from every quarter of the hill, at his cry 
of triumph. With a refinement of bar- 
barism, a horn of some fiery cordial, 
flavouring of antique Pictish art, was 
applied to my feeble lips ; to save them 
the pains, no doubt, of carriage to their 
haunt. Eeviving as it was to every 
vital energy, I could have drained it to 
the bottom, heedless of their fiendish 
laughter, but that some one rushed up 
breathless, forcing it away. I looked up 
and saw, as a dark presentiment had 
told me, Ickerson himself. A train of 
dire suspicions poured upon my mind 
while I heard his explanations, while 
I came back to sober reality. Never had 
his vague political theories squared with 
my own practical views : had his Celtic 
leanings entangled him in some deep- 
laid plot, of which Moir and he were 
accomplices I the silly victim, unless 
a proselyte ? Nay his genuine delight^ 
his affectionate joy convinced. me I could 
depend upon him yet, as he fell upon 
my neck like Esau, informing me how 
simple the facts had been. Too tutelary 
only, if not triumphant, that manner of 
statement about the sheep-drivers on 
the hill who had seen me, of the actual 


Loch-na-Diomhair The Lake of the Secret. 

distillers who were present, the supposi- 
tion that I was the English ganger, and 
the safe vicinity, amidst that drenching 
rain, of the smuggling-bothy. There is 
a coolness, there is a depth about the 
character of Mark Ickerson, which even 
yet I have to fathom. He now used the 
Erse tongue like a truncheon: and in 
all he said, did those heathery-looking 
Kernes place implicit faith ; conducting 
us to their den with welcome, nay re- 
suming their operations before us, in 
which he even went so far as to join 
zealously. Indeed, for my own part, 
I have an impression that there is con- 
siderable vivacity in the Gaelic language, 
and that it has a singular power of com- 
municating social and mirthful ideas. I 
now look back upon my enjoyment of 
its jests or lyric effusions with a feeling 
of surprise ; except as indicative of an 
habitual courtesy, and of a certain 
aptn,ess in me to catholic sympathies 
with all classes or races of men. 

We were not going, however, to live 
perpetually in a mist, which bade fair to 
continue up there ; neither was it de- 
sirable that Ickerson should become 
permanently an illicit distiller, speaking 
Gaelic only. Happily there was of the 
party a man, of course accidentally 
present, and by no means connected 
with systematic fraud against the excise, 
who could guide us in fog or rain, by 
day or night, to our destination ; himself, 
it turned out, a Macdonochy, though 
rejoicing more in the cognomen of 
" Dochart." How or in what manner, 
along with this Dochart, we emerged 
gradually from the mist upon a wet 
green knoll of fern and juniper, fairly 
into the splendour of the west, striking 
down Glen-Samhach itself, how we all 
three descended with augmented spirits, 
till the long expanse of the lake glittered 
upon our sight, and then the scattered 
smoke of huts grew visible, it were 
difficult, if it had been judicious, to 
relate. There is to this hour something 
confused about that memorable short cut 
altogether, more especially as to its close. 
Only, that some one, probably Ickerson, 
struck up a stave of a song, German 
-or Gaelic, in the refrain of which we 

all joined, not excepting the elderly 

All at once we were close upon the 
schoolmaster's house, a homely enough 
cottage, where Moir's head-quarters had 
been established ; at one end of the 
clachan, before you reach the lake. He 
had made himself at home as usual ; and, 
though surprised at our despatch, of 
course welcomed us gladly. A pleasant, 
lively young fellow, Frank Moir : former 
college-mate of us both, though but for 
a term or two, ere he turned aside to 
commerce. And who can enjoy the 
Highlands like a London man born 
north of Tweed ; or enjoy, for that 
matter, a tumbler or so of genuine 
Highland toddy, with the true peaty 
flavour from up some Ben-Araidh ; con- 
versing of past days and present life, to 
more indigenous friends ? We too 
relished it to the utmost. The pursuers 
were left behind us, unable to follow. 
Finally, Ickerson and I, on two boxed- 
in beds of blanket over heather at the 
end next the cowshed, with the partition 
not up to the rafters between us and its 
wheezy occupants, slept the sweetest 
sleep of many months. 



THAT first whole day of untroubled, 
silent, secluded safety, upon the sunlit 
waters of Loch-na-Diomhair, how inde- 
scribable was it ! We heeded little the 
first day, how our sporting successes 
might be ensured ; excepting Moir only, 
to whom nature is rather the pretext for 
fishing, than vice versd as with most 
intellectual workers, like us who fol- 
lowed his guidance. A boat, at any rate, 
was the first desire of all three ; and 
as a boat was at the schoolmaster's 
command, we put it to immediate use. 
" This day, Moir," says Ickerson, in 
his quaint way, " let Brown indulge that 
idle vein of his while we revel, rather, 
in the exertion so congenial to us. 
Yesterday, he perhaps had enough of 
that. Nevertheless, let him take the 
oars to himself, that we may troll these 
waters as he enjoys his visions see 

Loch-na-DiomJiair TJie Lake of the Secret. 


what a sweep of blue loch ! Yea, past 
the lee of the trees, yonder, what a 
favouring ripple of a breeze too soon 
to be lost, I fear me !" 

The sly pretender, he had an advantage 
over me yet. It was not I, but he, who 
inclined to inert dreaming ; as we floated 
forth on an expanse as yet distinguishable 
by very little from other lakes, with no 
features of extraordinary beauty ; but 
solitary, bare, spreading on wider till it 
folded between two promontories of wild 
bill. And then, with the first buoyant 
sense of depth of liquid force taken 
hold upon by the oar in a conscious 
hand, to be wrestled with at least for 
exercise what refreshment, what exul- 
tation at your measureless might, your 
endless outgoings, your inexhaustible 
sources, ye abundant and joyous 
waters ! Anywhere anywhere with ye, 
for Loch-Diomhair is but a name, that 
in itself would soon disappoint us. 
And Ickerson, too, cheated of his evasive 
resort to the rod and its lazy pleasures, 
is held in emulous unison with me, by 
the ash-stave he has not time to lay 
aside ; till insensibly we are trying our - 
strength together, and our power to 
modulate it harmoniously, while Moir's 
will becomes ours, as he stands erect 
before us, but backward his minnow 
spinning astern, his eye intent, hand 
ready, the ends of his somewhat sump- 
tuous neckerchief fluttering with the 
swift smooth motion. A sudden jerk 
at last, a whirr, the running reel is 
tremulous with his first sea-trout of the 
season, which shows play in good earnest, 
making straight for open water through 
yonder reeds by the point, where no line 
twisted by tackle-maker's hands will 
bear the strain. 

At that, no Yankee whaling-captain 
can shout more excitedly, or more un- 
reasonably demand superhuman exer- 
tions, than Moir; when he required our 
double speed on the instant, to do all 
but overtake the fin-borne fugitive, tail- 
propelled for its dear life; that he 
might save the first tug upon his line 
as he shortened it quickly, with a subtile 
art ! Yet we justified his expectations, 
Ickerson and I, putting forth the strenu- 

ousness of Mohawks upon the chase ; 
so that down, down, in the nearer pro- 
found beneath us, our sea-trout must 
sound himself perforce, then, after a 
sullen pause, come up exhausted, to show 
but a few more freaks of desperation, 
and, turning its yellow side to the sun, 
yield to the insidious pole-net at last. 
A solid three-pounder at the least, plump, 
lustrous, red-spotted ; the pledge, merely, 
of a splendid future in Loch-Diomhair. 
"We rejoiced over it, drank over it the 
first quaich of that day's mountain-dew, 
and were thenceforth voAved to the en- 
grossing pursuit in which Frank Moir 
revelled. Little matter was it then, 
save for this object, how magnificent 
the reach of open water visible, lost in 
distant perspective ; with here and there 
a soft shore of copse, rising into a hill of 
wood ; a little island dotting the liquid 
space : on either side, the shadowy 
recesses of glens looking forth, purple- 
mouthed ; midway to one hand, the 
great shoulders and over-peering top of 
Ben-Araidh, supreme over all, beginning 
faintly to be reflected as the breeze failed. 
But there was one grim, grey, castellated 
old house, projected on a low point, 
which our friend denoted to us ; the 
abode of the Macdonochy, who looked 
forth with jealous preservation-law upon 
the sport of strangers. Nearer to us, he 
showed, as we were glad to find, the 
more modest yet wealthier residence of 
that English merchant, Mr. St. Clair, 
who had purchased there of late his 
summer retreat : and the St. Glairs were 
far more liberal of their rights, although 
it was said the young Macdonochy had 
become an intimate at their lodge, 
aspiring greedily to the hand of its fair 

Hence we turned our prow that way, 
and, still rowing stoutly, were fain to 
pass the hotter hours near shore, with 
oars laid by ; trying for heavy pike in the 
sedge-fringed bay. It was in order to 
find a pole in the nearest fence, on which 
Ickerson' s plaid might be spread as a 
sail, that he himself deliberately landed; 
showing, I must say, a cool heedless- 
ness of legality, such as his recent still- 
life might have tended to produce. 


Loch-na-Diomhair The Lake of the Secret. 

He caine back in his leisurely style, 
slowly relaxing his features to a smile, 
as he held up a glazed card of address, 
which he bore in triumph, along with 
the paling-slab. We had, indeed, 
heard voices ; and now found that 
Ickerson had fallen into sudden alter- 
cation with a groom attended by two 
setters. The groom looked after him 
as he stepped into the boat, with the 
timber shouldered still; and I recog- 
nised the attendant of our two fellow- 
passengers across Inversneyd ferry. It 
was not merely that he had been awed 
by Ickerson's stalwart dimensions : the 
truth was, that Ickerson, when detected 
by him in a felonious act, had cha- 
racteristically insisted on giving his own 
card to the groom, whom he commanded 
to bear it to the party of sportsmen he 
saw at hand. Thereupon, the young 
English officer, already known to us 
both by sight, had come forward smiling; 
to waive further excuses, to make re- 
cognition of Ickerson, and give in his 
turn his titular piece of paste-board; 
apologizing, also, for his awkward con- 
straint on the previous occasion. He 
had discovered that Ickerson and he had 
mutual acquaintances in town, with whom 
the former was, as usual, a favourite ; and 
knowing him thus by reputation before- 
hand, now wished the pleasure of cul- 
tivating this opportunity, so long as our 
friend should be in the neighbourhood. 
He was Captain St. Glair, Ardchonzie 
Lodge : at which retreat, throughout the 
sporting season now opened, the captain 
and his father would be delighted to 
profit by Mr. Ickerson's vicinity, with 
that of any friends of his who might 
incline to use the boats, or to shoot upon 
the moor. And before Ickerson left, in 
short, he had blandly reciprocated these 
advances, sociably engaging for us all 
that we would use the privilege at an 
early day ; so that the hospitality of 
the St Glairs, with the facilities and 
amenities of Ardchonzie Lodge, might 
fairly be considered open to us three. 
The luck of Ickerson, I repeat, is some- 
thing inexplicable. "What a number of 
friends he has, without any trouble to 
him ; and what a flow of acquaintances, 

ever partial, ever discovering their 
mutuality, so as to increase, and be inter- 
connected ! Appearing improvident, un- 
calculative, unworldly yet how does 
the world foster and pet him, playing, 
as it were, into his' hands. Even his 
facile nature will not explain it nor 
that diffuse, impersonal, lymphatic, self- 
unconsciousness, which makes all sorts 
of people fancy him theirs while they 
are with him. He must have some 
deep-seated ambition, surely, which he 
has marvellous powers to conceal. But 
at all events we returned together to- 
wards our quarters at the schoolmaster's, 
in the clachan of Glen-Samhach, full of 
Elysian prospects for many a day's 
rustication there. Loch-Diomhair was 
Utopia indeed the very expanse we 
had sighed for, of Lethean novelty, of 
strange and deep Nepenthe, amidst a 
primitive race, who knew us not; a 
rudely-happy valley, where the spirit of 
nature alone could haunt us, asking none 
of our secrets in exchange for hers. 

At our re-entrance to the humble 
lodging, as the dusk fell, my first glance 
caught upon an object on the table 
where our evening repast was to be spread. 
It was a letter a letter addressed in 
some hand I recognised, to me. To 
me, of course, these ghastly pursuers 
always come, if to any; and a vague 
foreboding seemed to have warned me 
as I crossed the threshold. It had not 
come by post, however : it was no 
pursuing proof-sheet, nor dunning re- 
minder, no unfavourable criticism, or 
conventional proposal Simply, what 
bewildered me, till I read some words 
in the envelope an inclosure of Frank 
Moi^s letter from that spot to me, which 
I had read to Ickerson at Inversneyd, 
and supposed him to have retained. I 
had forgot it again till I now saw it, and 
saw by the pencilled note of Dr. 
Trellington Blythe what the fact had 
been. I had dropped it in my haste on 
the little landing-pier, and it had at- 
tracted the sharp eye of Mr. M'Killop 
as it lay. It was Mr. M'Killop who, 
with a degree of inadvertence, as Dr. 
Blythe's note explained, had read the 
letter before he looked at the address 

Loch-na-Diomhair The Lake of the Secret 


a thing which our excellent friend, the 
doctor, seemed to repudiate, but could 
not regret ; because it had been the acci- 
dental occasion of a great benefit, and an 
expected pleasure. They would have a 
speedy opportunity of explaining in 
person. They had themselves brought 
the letter to Glen-Sambach. They were 
in search of lodgings near. Glen-Sam- 
bach and Loch-Diomhair were (they 
found) the very place the precise kind 
of locality for which Mrs. Blythe had 
been longing. They were near me, in 
short and to-morrow they would do 
themselves the satisfaction, &c. Any 
friends of mine, and so on, would be 
an accession to their modest circle, in 
that sequestered scene, so well depicted 
by my enthusiastic correspondent, whom 
they hoped soon to number among their 

This was an emergency indeed requir- 
ing the utmost vigour and tact, with 
unflagging resolution, to disentangle our- 
selves from it once more; nay, if promptly 
taken, to render it the outlet of a com- 
plete and trackless escape. Not that 
I myself hesitated for a moment ; since 
it was no other than the Blythe and 
M'Killop connection I now fled from 
while Glen-Sambach and Loch-Diom- 
hair, shared with them, became as the 
suburbs of that public which the Daily 
Tribune sways, bringing all its odious 
issues after. Like the gold-diggings of 
Kennebec ' or Bendigo would soon be 
our fancied El Dorado ; the greater its 
charin, the sweeter its secresy and soli- 
tude, the more speedily to be gone for 

Happily, it was evident that they 
kneyr nothing yet of Ickerson's conti- 
nuance with me. Fortunately, too, Moir 
did not need to fear their subseqtient 
displeasure. All that I had to overcome 
was the sudden vividness of anticipation 
they had both conceived, the latter espe- 
cially, from the cordial proffer of young 
St. Clair. It was a glowing vision for 
me to break yet ; if I did not break it, 
how much more painfully would it be 
dissipated by the claim on our society, 
with all its advantages and openings, 
which Trellington Blythe would amiably 

No. 7. VOL. II. 

employ, and M'Killop firmly expect 
nay, enforce. To me the prospect lost 
every tint when thus re-touched ; yet if 
they cared to try it, to fail me and re- 
main behind, they were welcome, I said, 
' so revealing the whole direness of the 

Had it not been for Ickerson's dread 
of the editor, before mentioned, I sus- 
pect he would now have shown defec- 
tion ; nay, even then, but for the said 
acquaintance with the courteous St. 
Glairs, which, if they two remained, he 
must now cultivate. He has no repug- 
nance like mine, I suspect, for the Blythe 
circle. As for Frank Moir, he is an 
eager sportsman, otherwise a mere man 
of the world ; and he swears by Ickerson 
in higher matters. The influence pos- 
sessed by Ickerson over him and others 
of the same stamp is curious to me. 
Ickerson did not reason on the matter ; 
he did not even trouble himself to paint 
M'Killop : giving but one significant 
shrug of his vast shoulders, one expres- 
sive grimace, then taking up his staff 
and plaid to follow me. Then Moir, 
shouldering his portmanteau for the first 
boy that could be found at hand, gave 
in a reluctant adhesion, and came with 
him; while I obscurely accounted for 
the change to our host, the intelligent 
but simple-minded pedagogue of the 

It was a misty moonrise, through 
which, as we silently set forth, we were 
soon lost to the most prying eyes in the 
clachan. Instead of suffering our friend's 
portmanteau to be delivered to any gillie 
whatever, I was ready for the burden 
myself. Whither we were going I did 
not say, not even knowing : only taking 
the way which led likeliest to some 
ultimate coach-road ; while truly it may 
be said, that, for a time, I had two silent, 
unsupporting followers one sullen, the 
other wrapt in most unsociable medi- 
tation till the moon rose bright upon 
our rugged path, the lake shimmering 
along beneath us through dreamy haze, 
silence lying behind upon the unseen 
glen. A new valley was opening up 
through the mountains, where the high 
road to the grand route lay plainly 


Mr. Holman Hunt's Picture. 

marked, as a turnpike bar reassured me 
soon. The milestones to Campbelltown 
pledged our security thenceforward. 

" Ickerson," I said then, " I am will- 
ing to give up this leadership. Observe, 
I confess my past oversights. I own 
that, but for me, this would not have 
dccurred. There are other spots than 
Loch-Diomhair, doubtless, where we 
may escape, to realise jointly what we 
have severally at heart. Henceforth, 
nevertheless, I relinquish all ambiguity 
or subterfuge to your utmost desire. I 
will eschew short cuts. Let us go with 
the common stream, if you will, and 
take our unpurposed pleasure as we find 
it. Let us even visit, under your guid- 
ance, the tomb of Highland Mary, and 
inscribe our initials, if there is room for 
them, on the walls of the birth-place of 
Burns. Or, if Moir inclines, let him 
head us to the glorious sport of the 
Sutherland lochs, and the favourite 

Findhorn of St. John. I will gladly 
yield the burdensome post of command 
to either, Avho undertakes our common 
security from M'Killop and and the 

How clear is that consciousness of 
superior will which alone enables us to 
lead onward ! When I thus seemed to 
surrender it, neither Ickerson nor Moir 
felt capable of the function. They 
jointly confessed it by their looks, and 
successively repudiated the charge : 
which I then resolutely took again. 

How I justified it, and how we spent 
the holiday-season in joyous companion- 
ship, refreshed for new work, is not to 
the point. Suffice it to say, that I had 
learnt how the Blythes avoid the com- 
mon track, and the M'Killops follow 
them ; thus, however, turning aside the 
vulgar current, and so leaving the old 
channels free. 



ALL persons conversant with art matters 
of late have been aware that this distin- 
guished artist has for five or six years 
past been engaged upon a work entitled 
as above, in executing which he had 
spared neither time, labour, study, nor 
expense, in order to put before the world 
a picture produced exactly in his own 
ideal such a one indeed as should dis- 
play those convictions respecting art 
which he is known to have made the 
rule of his life, and has followed out, 
notwithstanding difficulties and real 
dangers such as would have utterly de- 
feated most men, or at least modified an 
ordinary strength of purpose. Con- 
ceiving an idea of the great advantages 
that would result from painting any 
picture in- the very locality where the 
incident chosen happened, and choos- 
ing a Scriptural theme such as this, 
Mr. Hunt was fortunate in the cir- 
cumstantial immutability of character 

and costume which has prevailed to a 
great extent in the East from the time 
of the Saviour until now. In the East 
traditions linger for ages such as in 
this more mutable West would have 
vanished long ago. By the light of this 
irregular history many customs have 
been elucidated, the comprehension of 
which is highly essential to the faith- 
ful and observant study of a subject re- 
lating to the life of Christ. That a pic- 
ture to be duly honoured in execution 
should be painted on its own ground, so 
to speak, being the leading conviction of 
the artist's mind, there remained nothing 
for him but to proceed to Jerusalem 
when he decided upon this subject. 
Accordingly this was done, and during 
a stay of more than eighteen months 
Mr. Hunt's whole attention was devoted 
to the study of the material he required, 
to the getting together of accessorial 
matter, and actual execution of a consi- 

Mr. Holman Hunt's Picture. 


derable part of this picture. The greater 
portion of four succeeding years has 
been given to its completion, and the 
result is now before the world. 

It will be right to premise that Mr. 
Hunt's opinions in art, which opinions 
were convictions, and, what is far more, 
convictions put into action, led him to 
journey to Jerusalem, not only to study 
the best existing examples of the phy- 
sical aspect of the race he had to paint, 
but to obtain such material in the way of 
costume as could only be obtained there. 
To do this fully, he acquired before de- 
parting a sound knowledge of the very 
history he had to illustrate. Thus pre- 
pared, his journey was so far profitable 
that we believe there is not one single 
incident in the action of the picture, or 
single point of costume shown from 
the very colour of the marble pavement 
of the Temple, the jewellery worn, or 
instruments carried by the personages 
represented for which he has not actual 
or analogical authority. How deep this 
labour has gone will be best conceived 
when we say that the long-lost archi- 
tecture of the second Temple has been 
brought to a new life in his work. 
Based upon the authorities existing, the 
whole of the architecture shown in the 
picture may be styled the artist's in- 
vention, not in any way a wild flight of 
imagination, but the result of thought- 
ful study, and the building up of part by 
part, founded upon the only true prin- 
ciple of beauty in such designs that is, 
constructive fitness. The whole edifice 
is gilded or overlaid with plates of 
gold, the most minute ornaments are 
profoundly studied, extremely diversi- 
fied, yet all in keeping with the charac- 
teristics of Eastern architecture, that de- 
rived its archetypes from an Oriental 
vegetation, and decoratively employed 
the forms of the palm, the vine, and 
pomegranate. But let it not be consi- 
dered that these mere archaeological 
matters have absorbed the artist beyond 
their due ; so far from this is the case, 
that the design itself is not without a 
modern instance of applicability to the 
life of every man, and the " Wist ye not 
that I must be about my Father's busi- 

ness?" is as much an exhortation to us 
as it was a reply to the parents of 

The unflinching devotion shown by 
the painter, and the inherent nobility of 
his principles of art, have then this great 
merit in them, that the result stands be- 
fore us almost with the solemnity of a 
fact. It seems life that has been lived, 
and a potent teaching for us all, not only 
to show the way in which our labours 
should be performed by that by which 
Mr. Hunt has executed his but, by the 
vividness and vitality of his representa- 
tion, the first step of Christ's mission 
produces a fresh, and, it may be, deeper 
impression upon the mind, than that 
which most men have to recall the me- 
mories of their youth to enter on. This he 
holds, and wo also, to be the true result 
of art. Let us consider to what purpose 
he has applied these principles,, and how 
the end of this long labour can be said 
to fulfil them. 

The distinguishing executive character 
of the picture that strikes the eye at 
first, is luminous depth and intensity 
of colour, the perfect truth of chiaro- 
scuro that gives relief and roundness to 
every part to which its solidity of 
handling aids potentially the whole 
truthful eifect being enhanced, when, 
upon examination, we discern the minute 
and elaborate finish that has been given 
to the most trifling details. The whole 
has the roundness and substantiality of 
nature, utterly unniarred by that want 
of balance in parts observable in the 
productions of the less accomplished 
painters of the Pre-Baflaelite school, 
whose shortcomings in this respect have, 
notwithstanding the earnestness and 
energy displayed by many among them, 
rendered the title " Pre-Baflaelite " al- 
most opprobrious. Let us now turn to 
the picture itself. 

The Temple. A brief vista of gilded 
columns closed at the end by a lattice- 
work screen of bronze open to the ex- 
ternal air. The immediate locality, an 
outer chamber of the building, one 
valve of the entrance door put wide 
back, showing without the courtyard, 
with masons at work selecting a stone, 



Mr. Holman Hunt's Picture. 

maybe the " stone of the corner ; " over 
the wall the roofs of the city, and far 
off the hill country. Within, and seated 
npon a low dewan, scarcely raised from 
the floor, are the elders of the Temple, 
seven in number, arranged in a semi- 
circle, one horn of which approaches 
the front of the picture. Behind them 
stand four musicians, whose grouping 
repeats the generally semicircular dispo- 
sition of the figures. A flight of doves 
gambol in the air without ; several have 
entered the building, and fly over the 
heads of the family of Christ, who stand 
by the doorway facing the priest and 
elders. Mary, who has just discovered 
her Son, tenderly embraces, and with 
trembling lips presses her mouth to- 
wards his face. Lovely is the eager 
yearning of her eyes, the lids dropped, 
the irides dilated and glittering with 
tearful dew that has gathered itself into 
a drop to run down her cheek. Her 
skin is fair and young, her features 
moulded appropriately on the pure Jew- 
ish type in its finest and tenderest 
character. The bold fine nose, the broad, 
low, straight forehead, straight eyebrows 
a royal feature ; wide-lidded eyes 
reddish with anxiety; the pure fine- 
lined cheek a little hollowed, but a 
very little and rounded, clear-cut chin, 
make a countenance as noble as it is 
beautiful But far beyond the mere 
nobility of structural perfectness, the 
expression is the tenderest of the utmost 
outpouring of a heart that has yearned, 
and travailed, and hungered long. That 
long, long throe days of searching has 
marked her cheek and sunk her eyes, 
and although the red blood of joy runs 
now to its surface, this does but show 
how pale it was before. Could I but 
tell you in my poor words how her 
mouth tells all this, how it quivers with 
a hungry love, arches itself a little over 
the teeth, its angles just retracted, 
ridging a faint line, that is too intense 
for a smile, upon the fair, sweet maternal 
cheek ! Forward her head is thrust, the 
whole soul at the lips urgent to kiss. 
There is a spasm in the throat, and the 
nostrils breathe sharply, but all the joy- 
ful agony of the woman the intensity 

of the maternal storge seeks at the lips 
the cheek of her Son. For this the eyes 
sheathe themselves with levelled lids 
for this the body advances beyond the 
hasty feet. It is but to draw him nearer 
that one eager hand clasps his removed 
shoulder, and the other eager hand 
raises that which the Son has put upon 
its wrist, pressing it against his mother's 

The feet of all three are bared. Joseph 
stands looking down on both ; Mary's 
shoes, held by the latchet, are slung over 
Joseph's shoulder by one hand ; his other 
hand has been upon the arm of Jesus, 
until the eager, trembling fingers of the 
mother slid beneath, displacing it in her 
passionate haste. Christ has been stand- 
ing before the elders when his parents 
entered, and then turned towards the 
front, so that we see his face full. It is 
an oval, broadened at the top by a noble, 
wide, high-arched forehead, surmounting 
abstracted and far-off seeing eyes that 
round the eyelids open, wistfully and 
thoughtfully presaging, yet radiant with 
purpose, though mournful and earnest. 
They express the thought of his reply, 
" "Wist ye not that I must be about my 
Father's business ?" He is heedful of 
his mission half abstracted from the 
embrace. The action of his right hand, 
drawing tighter the broad leathern girdle 
of his loins, and the almost passive way 
in which his fingers rest upon the wrist 
of Mary, express this, while the firmly- 
planted feet, one advanced, although 
his body sways to his mother's breast, 
indicate one roused to his labour and 
ready to enter upon the journey of life. 
The beauty of the head of Christ takes 
the eye at once not only through the 
totally original physical type the artist 
has adopted, but by the union of healthy 
physique with intellectual nobleness, 
fitting the body for the endurance of 
suffering. There is a marked difference 
between Hunt's idea of the corporeal 
appearance of our Lord and that usually 
chosen by the painters, who have shown 
him as a delicate valetudinary for such 
is the character imparted by their 
allowing a certain feminine quality to 
overweigh the robustness required for 

Mr. Holman Hunt's Picture. 


the simple performance of his labours. 
He is here a noble, beautiful boy of 
about twelve, broad-chested, wide-shoul- 
dered, active-limbed, and strong to bear 
and do. The head sustains this charac- 
ter, the forehead being as we have 
before said, the eyes blue, clear yet 
tender, with all their strength of pur- 
pose that does but recognise sorrow. The 
mouth, pure, sweet, small, yet pulpy 
and full, is compassionate and sympa- 
thising. The nostrils are full without 
breadth. The complexion fair, yet rich, 
and charged with healthy blood. If we 
give attention to the eyes, their beauty 
and nobility become distinct : the broad 
lids are lifted, so that the gaze is open 
and upon vacancy. From the forehead 
the hair springs like a flame gathered 
about the countenance, parted at the 
centre, and laid back to either side ; 
the sunlight from without is caught 
amongst its tips, and breaks in a golden 
haze like a glory. So placed, this is 
ever the case with hair of that character. 
There remains for us to point out one 
exquisite subtlety of expression in this 
head : it is this, the near warmth of the 
Virgin's face causes the side of Christ's 
countenance to flush a little, and one 
eyelid to droop and quiver, almost im- 
perceptibly, but still plainly enough to 
be read. 

Let us point out that this is no tender, 
smiling Virgin, like that of many of the 
old masters, blandly regarding a pretty 
infant a theme of mere beauty but a 
tearful, trembling, eager, earnest mother 
finding the lost Lamb and the devoted 
Son. Rightly has Mr. Hunt nationalized 
her features to the Jewish type. Nor is 
Christ like the emaciated student usually 
chosen for a model. Here the intensity 
of the artist's thought appears. He has 
been penetrated with the idea of service, 
use, and duty; no making of a pretty 
picture has been his aim, but rather, in 
showing us how the noblest and most 
beautiful submitted to duty, he would 
teach us our own. This is Christ of 
the preaching, Christ of the crown of 
thorns, Christ of the cross, Christ of 
the resurrection and the life eternal, 
the soldier and the Son of God. Beau- 

tiful is the son of the King ; he is 
dressed in the colours of royalty of the 
house of Judah ; even his poor robe is 
a princely garment of stripes of pale 
crimson and blue the ordained fringe is 
about its lower hem. The broad leathern 
belt that goes about his loins is of 
blood red, and marked with a cross in 
front, an ornament in common use in 
the East from time immemorial, being 
the symbol of life even with the 
ancient Egyptians ; it is placed appro- 
priately upon the girdle of Christ. 
These three form the principal group 
placed towards the left of the picture. 
Facing them are the rabbis and elders, 
to whom we now turn. 

These are arranged in a sort of semi- 
circle, as was said above, one of its horns 
retreating into the picture. The men 
are of various ages and characters ; all 
the principal heads were painted at 
Jerusalem, from ^Jews whose counte- 
nances suggested to the artist the cha- 
racter he wished to represent. The 
eldest of the rabbis sits in front, white- 
bearded, blind, and decrepit ; with his 
lean and feeble hands he holds the rolls 
of the Pentateuch against his shoulder ; 
the silver ends of the staves on which 
this is rolled, with their rattling pen- 
dants and chains, rise beside his head ; 
the crimson velvet case is embroidered 
with golden vine-wreaths and the mystic 
figure of the Tetragrammaton ; over 
this case is an extra covering or mantle 
of light pink, striped with blue, intended 
to protect the embroidery. As all ap- 
purtenances of this holy roll of the law 
were held sacred and beneficent, there 
is placed a pretty little child at the feet 
of the rabbi, armed with a whisk to brush 
off the flies that is, Beelzebub, from 
the cover of holy rolls. Behind stands 
an older boy, furtively invoking a bless- 
ing on himself by kissing the mantle 
of silk. Blind and half imbecile is the 
oldest rabbi; but he who sits next to 
him, a mild old man, with a gentle face 
of faith, holds a phylactery in his hand. 
Let us here explain that a phylactery is 
not at all one of those placards which it 
was the custom of the old painters to 
put over the foreheads of the Pharisees, 

Mr. Holman Hunt's Picture. 

&e. inscribed with Luge characters, but 
really a small square wooden box, bound 
round the head by a leathern belt, and 
containing the written promises of the 
old dispensation. Such is the phylac- 
tery the second rabbi holds in one hand, 
while he presses the other upon the 
writ of his neighbour, and seems to be 
asserting that, whatever might be the 
nature of the reasonings of Christ, they 
at least had these promises that were 
written within the phylactery upon 
which they might both rely. 

Next comes another, in the prime of 
life, who, having entered eagerly into 
the dispute with the Saviour, unrolls 
the book of the prophecies of Daniel, 
whereby to refute the argument. He is 
interested, disputatious, and sceptical ; 
leans forward to speak passionately, half 
impatient of the interruption caused by 
the entrance of Joseph and Mary, to 
which the attention of several of the 
other rabbis is given. His feet are 
drawn up close beneath him upon the 
dewan, a characteristic action of such a 
temperament when excited : those of 
the elder rabbis are placed at ease upon 
the floor, but with varying and appro- 
priate attitudes. There is a hard look 
upon this man's face set passion in his 
mouth, resolute anger in his eye, and a 
firm, sharp gripe of the hands upon the 
roll he holds ; this is finely in keeping. 
Over his shoulder, from the second row, 
leans a musician, one of the house of 
Levi, speaking to him, and with pointed 
finger making a comment on the words 
of Christ, at whom he is looking. The 
fourth rabbi, who is also concerned in 
this dialogue, wears a phylactery on his 
forehead. We presume Mr. Hunt in- 
tended by this to indicate a supereroga- 
tion of piety in this individual, the 
phylactery, in strict propriety, being 
only worn at time of prayer. He recounts 
the arguments, and, holding a reed pen 
in one hand, presses its point against a 
finger of the other, as one does who is 
anxious to secure the premises before he 
advances further. The overweening cha- 
racter of this man is thus indicated; let 
the observer note how the artist makes 
the action of each person to be with an 

entire consent of the attitude of his whole 
body, by this man's assumption of repose 
and dignity shown in his leaning back 
on the dewan. The fifth rabbi, an old, 
mild-visaged man, whose long white 
beard, divided in two parts, falls nearly 
to his girdle, sits more erect ; his feet, 
drawn up beneath him, are planted 
flatly before. He holds a shallow glass 
vessel of wine in his hand that has been 
poured out by an attendant behind. 
He looks at the reunion of the Holy 
Family, and suspends his drinking to 
observe them. A sixth elder leans 
forward to look also, placing his hand 
upon the back of the dewan. The seventh 
and last is as distinct in character and 
action as all the rest are. Like the fifth, 
he has an ink-horn in his girdle ; he is 
corpulent, self-satisfied, and sensuously 
good-natured ; he raises his hand from 
his knee to express an interest in the 
transaction before him ; he sits cross- 
legged, and quite at ease, nevertheless. 
This individual completes the semi- 
circle of the rabbis, and brings us again 
to the figure of Christ. 

Returning now to the other side of 
the picture : Immediately above the dis- 
putatious rabbi, and leaning against one 
of the gilded columns, is a youth hold- 
ing a sistrum in his hand one of the 
rings strung upon its wires about to 
drop from his fingers. He is handsome, 
supercilious-looking, and fair-complex- 
ioned. Leaning upon his shoulder is 
another youth, also a musician, bearing 
a four-stringed harp ; the face of the 
last is quite in contrast to that of his 
companion, having an ingenuous sweet- 
ness and gentleness of character about 
it that is almost fascinating. Eagerly 
thrusting his face against the column, 
and peering over the head of the last, is 
a third youth, whose large, well-open 
eyes, broad features, and inquisitive look, 
support his active anxiety to see what 
is going forward, admirably. 

In the extreme distance of the vista 
of columns, a money-changer is seen 
weighing gold in a balance. A father 
has brought his firstborn to the Temple, 
accompanied by his wife, who bears the 
child in her arms; the husband has 

Mr. Holman Hunt's Picture. 


across his shoulder the lamb of sacrifice, 
while a seller of lambs, from whom this 
has just been purchased, counts the 
price in the palm of one hand, and with 
the other presses back an anxious ewe 
that would follow her offspring. In 
another part, a boy is seen with a long 
scarf driving out the fugitive doves that 
have entered the Temple. At the door, 
a lame and blind beggar is chanting a 
prayer for alms. 

Thus far we have spoken of the inci- 
dents of the design, the character and 
expressions of the personages, and gene- 
ral appearance of this marvellous picture. 
We have endeavoured also to indicate 
what have been the artist's purposes 
and motives, and the difficulties of its 
execution. It remains now to speak of 
the manner in which he has carried this 
out, especially in regard to the noble 
qualities of colour and drawing. For 
the last, let it suffice that the minutest 
detail has been wrought out ; the veiy 
hands of the men are a perfect accom- 
paniment to their eyes and physical 
aspect ; those of the oldest rabbi are 
pallid, full- veined, and slow pulses seem 
to circulate in them. Mary's are ele- 
gantly slender a little sunken, but very 
beautiful. Each fold in every garment 
is "accounted for," and duly studied 
from nature. The Virgin's dress is grey, 
dust-stained with travel. She has an 
under-garment of white, and a girdle, 
whose red fringes show at the open side, 
tossed up with the eagerness of hef 
actions. An elegant head-dress of white, 
striped with red, falls back on her 
shoulders. Joseph's body-coat is like 
that of Christ, crimson and purple in 
very narrow stripes ; over this is a brown 
and white burnoose, such as the Arabs 
wear to this day. The provision for a 
journey, a row of figs, is strung to his 
girdle. The rabbis have all the over- 

garment proper to Pharisees, of pure 
white, except that worn by the chief, 
which is barred with broad and narrow 
bands of black upon the sleeves ; a dress 
styled the "Tillith," worn only when 
bearing the Torah, or rolls of the law. 
The most removed has his under-gar- 
ment amber-coloured, striped with blue, 
and a deep-blue robe beneath all. He 
that is about to drink wears an exqui- 
site turquoise green-blue vest of sheeny 
texture, that gathers brightness in the 
shade ; this is girt to him by a girdle 
of white and red. The young musicians 
wear green garments and turbans of rich 
crimson, and purple and green, harmo- 
niously blended so as to create exquisite 
c lour. The roof of the Temple is gilt 
like the columns, elaborately decorated 
with alternate pines, vine-branches, and 
pomegranates, and lighted from without 
by small openings, filled with stained 
glass. The door of the Temple, visible 
over Joseph's head, bears plates of ham- 
mered gold riveted upon it ; upon these 
is discernible a great circle, from whose 
centre radiates an ornament of papyrus 
plant, the intersections filled with the 
unopened buds of the same : guttce of 
gold are drawn on the flat surface of the 
door. The pavement of the Temple is 
of a deep-tinted marble, in broad veins 
of a palish blood-colour and white. 

It is now time to announce our con- 
viction that Mr. Holman Hunt, who has 
ever been the steadfast centre of the 
Pre-Eafl'aelite movement, has in this 
noble work successfully laid down his 
idea of art ; that by so doing he has put 
a crown on to his previous labours ; and 
that the result is likely to be a great exten- 
sion of those principles now, perhaps, 
for the first time fairly elucidated to 
which is mainly due the remarkable and 
inestimable advance that has of late years 
taken place in English art. 




CHRIST-CHILD, Everlasting, Holy One, 
Sufferer of all the sorrow of this world, 
Redeemer of the sin of all this world, 
Who by Thy death brought' st life into this world 
Christ, hear us ! 

This, this is Thou. No idle painter's dream 
Of aureoled, imaginary Christ, 
Laden with attributes that make not God ; 
But Jesus, son of Mary ; lowly, wise, 
Obedient, subject unto parents, niild, 
Meek as the meek that shall inherit earth, 
Pure as the pure in heart that shall see God. 

O infinitely human, yet divine ! 

Half clinging child-like to the mother found, 

Yet half repelling as the soft eyes say 

" How is it that ye sought me ? Wist ye not 

That I must be about my Father's business ?" 

As in the Temple's splendors mystical, 

Earth's wisdom hearkening to the all- wise One, 

Earth's closest love clasping the all-loving One, 

He sees far off the vision of the cross, 

The Christ-like glory and the Christ-like doom. 

Messiah ! Elder Brother, Priest and King, 
The Son of God, and yet the woman's seed ; 
Enterer within the veil ; Victor of death, 
And made to us first fruits of them that sleep ; 
Saviour and Intercessor, Judge and Lord, 
All that we know of Thee, or knowing not 
Lov* only, waiting till the perfect time 
When we shall know even as we are known 
Thou Child Jesus, Thou dost seem to say 
By the soft silence of these heavenly 'eyes 
(That rose out of the depths of nothingness 
Upon this limner's reverent soul and hand) 
We too should be about our Father's business 
Christ, hear us ! 

Have mercy on us, Jesus Christ, our Lord ! 

The cross Thou borest still is hard to bear; 

And awful even to humblest follower 

The little that Thou givest each to do 

Of this Thy Father's business ; whether it be 

Temptation by the devil of the flesh, 

Or long-linked years of lingering toil obscure, 

Spiritualistic Materialism Michelet. 41 

Uncomforted, save by tlie solemn rests 
On mountain-tops of solitary prayer ; 
Oft ending in the supreme sacrifice, 
The putting off all garments of delight, 
And taking sorrow's kingly crown of thorn, 
In crucifixion of all self to Thee, 
Who offeredst up Thyself for all the world. 
Christ, hear us ! 

Our Father's business : unto us, as Thee, 

The whole which this earth-life, this hand-breadth span 

Out of our everlasting life that lies 

Hidden with Thee in God, can ask or need. 

Outweighing all that heap of petty woes 

To us a measure huge which angels blow 

Out of the balance of our total lot, 

As zephyrs blow the winged dust away. 

Thou who \vert the Child of Nazareth, 

Make us see only this, and only Thee, 

Who earnest but to do thy Father's will, 

And didst delight to do it. Take Thou then 

Our bitterness of loss, aspirings vain, 

And anguishes of unfulfilled desire, 

Our joys imperfect, our sublimed despairs, 

Our hopes, our dreams, our wills, our loves, our all, 

And cast them into the great crucible 

In which the whole earth, slowly purified, 

Runs molten, and shall run the Will of God. 

Christ, hear us ! 



THE future historian of the literature of he a pure physiologist ? His latest pro- 

the nineteenth century will have con- ductions turn largely on physiological 

siderable difficulty in ticketing M. considerations ; yet I suspect that a real 

Michelet according to his proper class physiologist will be as little disposed to 

and order. Is he to rank among the admit him for such, as a lawyer would 

historians? He has written many deem him a jurist in virtue of his 

volumes of so-called histories, but volume " On the Origins of French 

which v are generally valuable and in- Law." Is he a political writer 1 ? His 

teresting precisely by that in them lectures had to be stopped by command 

which is not really historic. Is he a of Government ; yet I doubt if even 

naturalist ? He has taken to natural his invocation to the " Holy Bayonets 

history in later life ; but his two pleasant of France " ever raised him in any one 

volumes on " The Bird," and " The madcap's mind to the rank of a political 

Insect," contain the blunders of a tyro, leader. Is he a philosopher 1 He cer- 

nor should I advise any student to tainly has .translated the "Scienza 

assert anything as a fact in nature, Nuova " of Giambattista Vico ; but I 

because M. Michelet has stated it. Is pity the man who should seek to evolve 


Spiritualistic Materialism Michelet. 

a connected philosophy from his writings. 
Is he a theologian ? a religious inno- 
vator? He has seemed everything by 
turns at one time writing " Luther's 
Memoirs;" at another professing his 
attachment to the "poor old Catholic 
Church ;" at a third attacking Jesuitism 
in the name of Voltaire ; at last setting 
up Egyptian mythology as the most 
perfect of religious symbols. 

" Unstable as water, thou shalt not 
excel." Eeuben's lot seems to have 
been his. With marvellous gifts of style, 
an imagination of singular vivacity, 
active faculties of observation, occa- 
sional keen flashes of insight, very con- 
siderable and varied acquirements, quick 
sympathies at once with the beautiful 
and with the good, and the most sincere 
desire for the welfare of his fellow-crea- 
tures, with powers, in a word, sufficient 
for the creation of half-a-dozen master- 
pieces, and much of that universal 
aptitude which, if it be not genius 
itself, seems yet as it were the bulb out 
of which it springs, M. Michelet has 
not produced, and I believe will not 
leave behind him, one single great Avork 
one really beautiful one really good 
one ; although he will leave few which 
are not replete with interest ; not one 
which does not present us with beautiful 
thoughts, attractive pages, often chapters 
at a time. 

Yet M. Michelet's influence over his 
generation in France has been consider- 
able, and has not ceased to be such. 
Not a little, probably, on this account, 
that few men have opened a greater 
number of new paths, for the time 
being, to their countrymen. He brought 
back to them, from Italy, the great 
Neapolitan thinker, Vico. He was for 
France one of the first discoverers of 
modern Germany. He first, in his 
Roman History, popularized some of the 
Niebuhrian views as to Roman origins. 
Older professors stood aghast ; the book 
and its fellows were for a time nearly 
as much tabooed in the history classes 
of French colleges as a novel, or were 
only used in otherwise desperate cases, 
to kindle an interest in the subject. 
Learned men, the very pillars of the 

universities those survivors of an 
earlier age, trained either by Jesuit or 
Jansenist, before the first Revolution 
and Empire had deprived Frenchmen, 
for a time, of the leisure to learn Greek, 
<^stood utterly aghast at the pranks of 
a young professor of the Normal School, 
who talked of Sanscrit poetry and 
Welsh triads ; quoted at first hand the 
legendary romances of the middle ages ; 
gave extracts from Dante ; referred to 
Walter Scott ; and constantly mixed up 
the experiences of the present with the 
narratives of the past. Still Michelet's 
works, although of course read with 
avidity wherever they were treated, or 
supposed to be treated, as forbidden 
fruit, did not bear their full effect at the 
comparatively early age at which the 
ordinary French college is usually fre- 
quented. The school-boy in all coun- 
tries is in general an essentially practical 
creature. He soon found that for scho- 
lastic purposes for the cram of ex- 
aminations Michelet's works were of 
far less use to him than much duller 
ones, but better stored with the right 
facts, and more methodically treated. 
It was at a later age, and in that much 
higher theatre of the "College de 
France," where the vulgar stimulus of 
competition disappears, and the student 
learns for the sake of learning, that the 
brilliant eloquence of the man really 
took hold of the Parisian youth. Here 
the variety at once, and the mobility of 
Michelet's mind which will preserve 
for him a kind of youth even in his 
dotage seemed exactly to correspond 
with the like qualities in his hearers. 
Here was a man who appeared to have 
handled everything, looked into every- 
thing, thought about everything, sympa- 
thized with almost every human ten- 
dency ; who brought up the past into 
pictures as living as those of the present; 
who yet was essentially a Frenchman, 
and a Frenchman of the nineteenth 
century, full of national prejudices and 
national vanities, carried away with all 
the dominant impulses of the day. 
Who can wonder that when he came 
to deliver, simultaneously with his col- 
league, M. Quinet, his famous course 

Spiritualistic Materialism Mtchelet. 


upon the Jesuits, crowds, such as never 
had attended a professor before since the 
days of the middle ages, thronged his lec- 
ture-hall even more than that of Quinet, 
till the two professors grew to be almost 
a power in the state, and had to be 
silenced by authority ? 

The enormous popularity which the 
lecturer thus reached may be considered 
as opening the second period of his 
career. Though not, I repeat it, a 
genuine historian, yet his works hitherto 
have all an historical character; they 
are full of materials for history, his- 
torical sketches, curiosities of history. 
Now, the turbulence of the partisans of 
monasticism, which had interrupted his 
and Quinet's courses, seems to have 
stung him up into a politician, a dealer 
mainly with the things of the present ; 
and though he may write history so- 
called (that of the " Revolution," form- 
ing the last volumes of his " History of 
France"), this he will be henceforth 
above all, not indeed as a partisan, but 
as one of those who, wandering on the 
border land between the political and 
what may be called the psychical realm, 
contribute often far more powerfully 
towards impressing a general direction 
upon the public mind than does the 
mere politician, who points it to a 
definite aim. The "Jesuits," which 
reached four editions in six weeks, 
"Priests, Women, and Families," the 
" History of the Revolution," the 
" People," belong to this period. 

Then came the strange downfall of the 
liberties of France under the weight of a 
dead man's name, the sudden hushing 
of her most eloquent voices, except 
from beyond the sea, at the blare of the 
imperial trumpet. Michelet was silent, 
or nearly so, Hke others for awhile, and 
then spoke out as a student, not of 
historic facts, but of actual organisms. 
His book, " The Bird," opens what may 
be called the physiological portion of 
his career. So remarkable a transform- 
ation, exhibited by a man on the shady 
side of fifty, is a singular phenomenon 
in literary history, and many, foreigners 
especially, could scarcely believe that 
there was not a second " J. Michelet" 

at work with his pen. There was no 

mistaking, however, the artist's hand. 

"The Bird" displays all the qualities 

of style, and more than all the poetical 

fancy, of Michelet's best historical days. 

It begins by telling "how the author 

was led to the study of nature." " The 

' tune is heavy, and life, and work, and 

' the violent catastrophes of the time, 

' and the dispersion of a world of intel- 

' ligence in which we lived, and to 

'which nothing has succeeded. The 

' rude labours of history had once for 

'their recreation teaching, which was 

' my friendship. Their halts are now 

' only a silence. Of whom should I 

' ask moral refreshment unless of 

' nature 1 " The health of one dear to 

him, a passionate observer of nature, 

made him leave Paris, at first for a 

mere suburban home, from whence he 

returned to town every day. But the 

turmoil of the great city, its abortive 

revolutions, sent him farther off. He took 

up his quarters near Nantes, and here 

he wrote the latter part of his " History 

of the Revolution," already wakening 

up to the beauty and interest of nature, 

already longing for leisure to study her. 

But the climate was too damp, and 

drove him, in ill-health, further south. 

He now " placed his moveable nest in a 

fold of the Apennines, at two leagues of 

Genoa." And here, with no company 

but lizards, and living the life of a 

lizard himself, he felt a revolution take 

place within him. He seemed to see 

all living creatures claiming their place 

in the great democracy. Such, he tells 

us, was his renovation, "that late vita 

nuova which gradually brought me to 

the natural sciences." 

" The Bird," however, is still a work 
of mere natural history rather than of 
physiology. It deals with the outside 
of living nature; with form, colour, 
habits ; with these mostly in reference 
to man as a prototype; whatever of 
anatomy occurs in it is derived from 
the study of Dr. Auzoux's models. " The 
Insect " travels over much of the same 
ground, though in a lower stratum of 
life, but opens up another field. The 
author tells us how he bought a micro- 


Spiritualistic Materialism Michelet. 

scope, how he placed under it a woman's 
finger, a spider's leg ; how coarse ap- 
peared the structure of that which to us 
is living satin, how the repulsive coarse- 
ness of the latter opened out into mar- 
vellous beauty. It is from this point 
that the naturalist grows into the phy- 
siologist. The microscope is a cruel 
teacher ; no one who has once experi- 
enced the fascination of its powers can 
stop over outward form, but must pierce 
the mysteries of structure ; and the 
study of structure, except in a few 
transparent organisms generally of the 
lowest class, means disruption, dissec- 
tion. Whilst even apart from structure, 
the world of form and life which the 
microscope unveils to us is one so well- 
nigh entirely extra-human, the limbs 
which unite us to it are so few and so 
loose, those which unite its members 
among themselves so many and so pro- 
minent, that the temptation is strong 
for a fervid, fickle mind to be alto- 
gether carried away by the new specta- 
cle, to change altogether the pivot 
of its contemplations; and instead of 
seeing in the creature the shadow of the 
man, to see in man henceforth only the 
more highly organized creature. Hence 
already in this volume pages painful 
and repulsive to read. 

And now we come to the more essen- 
tially physiological works of the ex- 
professor of history. "IS Amour" now 
at its fourth edition, represents the 
climax of this period. I hardly know 
how to characterize this work fairly for 
an English public, so immoral would it 
be if written by an Englishman, so essen- 
tially does it require to be judged from, 
a French point of view. I hardly know 
how even to give an adequate idea of 
it, so greatly does it depart from any 
standard within reach of English hands 
by which it can be decently measured. I 
am convinced that never was a book writ- 
ten with honester intentions. The writer 
is full of good impulses ; his object, as 
he sets it forth in the first page of his 
introduction, is a noble one, " Moral 
enfranchisement by true love." That 
object he seeks to carry out by exhibit- 
ing to us the picture of the married life 

of a nameless couple, from the wedding- 
day to the grave. The book teems with 
tender and delicate passages, though 
placed in startling contact with the 
coarse and the trivial. There are pages 
in it which it is impossible to read with- 
out emotion. But the whole is sickly ; 
nauseous. As one closes the book, one 
seems to be coming out of some stifling 
boudoir, leaving an atmosphere mawkish 
with the mingled smell of drugs and per- 
fumes, heavy with the deadly steam of life. 
You miss in the "true love" of the book 
both the free buoyancy of health, and 
(except in a page here and there) the 
noble martyrdom of real suffering. Its 
aim seems to be to coax men into purity, 
by showing them a virtue more volup- 
tuous than vice, into tenderness towards 
woman by dwelling on her infirmities. 
The whole sense and substance of the 
book seems to be this, Given, an en- 
lightened young Frenchman of the 
nineteenth century, with a competent 
knowledge of anatomy, a fair income, 
large ideas of the perfectibility of the 
species, kindly feelings towards religion 
in general, and what may be called a 
bowing acquaintance with the idea of 
God, on the one hand, and on the other, 
a sickly Parisian girl, brought up in a 
Eomish convent or quasi-convent, 
how the one is to make the best of the 
other ? 

Looked at in this way remembering 
the writer's popularity not forgetting 
that he speaks with the authority of 
sixty years of life, I do not mean to 
say that the book is not likely to do 
some good to the class for which it is 
written. That class is a narrow one. It 
has been said ere this, in France, that 
M. Michelet's ideal "woman" would 
require from 15,000 to 45,000 francs 
a year to keep her. To the great bulk 
of the French population his book itself 
would be as Greek ; and, indeed, it is 
quite amusing to see how entirely the 
writer ignores the possibility that the 
red-cheeked country girl, whom he as- 
signs for servant to his ideal couple in 
their suburban home, should ever have 
a claim to " true love" on her own 
account He admits himself, that whilst 

Spiritualistic Materialism Michelet. 


he does not write for the rich, he does 
not Avrite either "for those who have 
' no time, no liberty, who are mastered, 
' crushed by the fatality of circumstances, 
' those whose unceasing labour regulates 
'and hastens all their hours. What 
' advice can one give to those who are 
' not free ? " But the class of men whom 
he addresses no doubt does exist, and 
is but too numerous for the health and 
well-being of the French body-politic ; 
nor are samples of it, Gad knows, want- 
ing amongst ourselves. It must have 
startled some of these to be told, by a 
man whose voice has often charmed 
them, who is one of themselves by his 
intellectual training and sympathies, 
who starts from no old-world notions 
of right and duty, but from the last new 
discoveries in medical science, that mar- 
riage, and faithful love in marriage, are 
to give them their " moral enfranchise- 
ment." Certainly, as compared with 
the coarse cynicism, or the still coarser 
attempts at morality, of the French 
novel or the French press under the 
imperial regime, M. Michelet's work, 
unreadable as it is in the main for 
Englishwomen, certainly unfit to be 
read by English girls, may well stand 
out as a very model of purity. 

The indications indeed, which it gives, 
of the growth of immorality under that 
regime tallying as they do entirely with 
information from other quarters are 
most painful. I do not speak of such 
facts as M. Michelet quotes from sta- 
tistics, and which any one may verify 
there, ominous though they be ; a 
stationary or decreasing population ; 
an increasing number of young men 
unfit for military service, marriages 
rapidly diminishing, widows ceasing to 
re-marry, female suicides multiplying. 
Most of these facts might be paralleled 
elsewhere ; some amongst ourselves. 
I refer to those details, evidently 
founded upon actual facts, which are 
given in the chapters entitled "The 
Fly and the Spider," and "Temptation," 
as to the corruption of female friend- 
ships, the abuse of official power, the 
utter, expected, absence of moral strength, 
even in the pure of life. 

" For the best, it is through their 
husband himself that for the most part 
they are attacked." If he be powerful, 
M. Michelet shows us " ladies in 
honourable positions, esteemed, often 
pious, active in good works, whom she 
has seen at charitable gatherings," 
coming to the virtuous wife in order 
to present some " young son, an inte- 
" resting young man, already capable of 
"serving the husband, devoted to his 
" ideas, quite in his line ; " who has 
been "a solitary student," "needs the 
polish of the world." He shows us 
female friends assiduously praising the 
young man into favour ; the lady's 
maid soon breaking the ice, to tell 
her mistress, whilst doing her hair, that 
he is dying of love. Formerly, M. Mi- 
chelet asserts, Lisette had to be bought. 
No need now. She knows well that 
the lady being once launched in such 
adventures, having given a hold upon 
her, and let a secret be surprised, she 
herself will be her mistress's mistress, 
will be able to rule and rob uncon- 

The case is still worse, if the husband, 
instead of protecting, needs protection, 
if he is a small official waiting for pro- 
motion, a worker in want of a capitalist 
to push him. Here the female friend 
(who seems by M. Michelet's account to 
be the modern Diabolos of France, vice 
Satan superannuated) works upon the 
young woman, now by dwelling on her 
husband's inferiority to herself, now by 
insisting on his need of help from some 
one who should have strength and credit 
to lift him at last from the ground. A 
meeting is arranged somehow between 
the lady and the future protector, both 
duly instructed beforehand ; the young 
woman seldom fails to justify what has 
been said of her by some slight act of 
coquetry, which she deems innocent, 
and in her husband's interest .... 
Audacity, a half-violence, often carries 
the thing . . . 

"You say no. You believe that 
"such odious acts are only to be seen 
" in the lowest classes. You are quite 
"mistaken. It is very common ... A 
"number of facts of this kind have 


Spiritualistic Materialism Michelet. 

" come to my knowledge, and by most 
" certain channels." .... She cries, she 
will tell all, she does nothing . . . "My 
" dear, in your husband's name, I be- 
" seech you, say nothing. He would 
die of grief. Your children would be 
ruined, your whole life upset. That 
man is so powerful to do harm. He 
is very wicked when he hates, and is 
provoked. But, one must admit it, 
he is zealous also for those he loves, 
he will do everything for your family, 
for the future of your children." 
And so the nauseous tale of corrup- 
tion through family interest rolls on. 
The young woman is entrapped into 
writing a letter, which henceforth 
establishes her shame. Now, " She is 
" spoken to in another tone. Command 
" succeeds entreaty. She has a master, 
" on such a day, at such an hour, 
" here or there, she is bid to come, and 
she comes. The fear of scandal, I 
'know not what fascination, as of a 
bird towards the snake, draw her 
back in tears. She is all the prettier. 
' The promises are little remembered. 

"When he has had enough, is she 
"free at least? Not a whit. The 
" female friend has the paper. . . . She 
"must go on, sold and resold, must 
" endure a new protector, who she is 
" told will do more, and often does yet 
" nothing. Fearful slavery, which lasts 
" while she is pretty and young, which 
"plunges her deeper and deeper, de- 
" bases, perverts her." 

Now, it would be too much to say 
that such tales- are without analogy 
amongst ourselves. There were a few 
years ago, there may still be, factories 
in Lancashire and Cheshire, where the 
young master, or even more so the over- 
looker, views the female hands simply 
as a harem, of which he is the sultan. 
There are still- agricultural parishes 
where no girl field-worker's virtue is safe 
against the squire's bailiff or gamekeeper. 
There are sweater's dens in London 
where* living wages are utterly out of 
the reach of the poor tailoress, unless 
she be also the favourite for the time 
being. But in the classes to which 
M. Michelet assigns the tale, it could 

not occur without filling journalists' 
pens with fire instead of ink, from John 
O' Groats to the Land's End. The 
leprosy of half-starved officialism has 
not tainted us so far as to endure such 
things. The moloch of competition has 
not yet in the trading world, even if it 
have in the working, claimed female 
virtue for its holocausts. Whilst England 
is free England, such enormities by the 
influential protector, capitalist, or offi- 
cial are, thank God, as unheard of, as 
in free France they some day will be. 

But it is not only through its inci- 
dental revelations of these effects of 
the poison of a despotic centralization, 
both in corrupting the relations be- 
tween man and man, and in taking 
away all fear on the one side, all con- 
fidence on the other, in the might of 
justice and public morality that this 
book is valuable. It is far more so as 
a testimony, all the more precious be- 
cause unconscious, to that which M. 
Michelet in his nineteenth century 
enlightenment well-nigh completely 
ignores, God's Bible, Christ's Gospel 
M. Michelet exalts physiology, half pro- 
scribes the Bible. He forgets that there 
is a certain amount of physiological 
knowledge which is absolutely essential 
to the understanding of the Bible, and 
which no mother who really reve- 
rences God's word will withhold, in 
due time, from her daughter. But the 
moral truths Avhich he evolves from 
physiological teaching are all, as far 
as I can see, anticipated in the Bible. 
If M. Michelet has satisfied himself 
by means of physiology that man is a 
monogamic animal, so much the better. 
But he who believes that from the 
mouth of Wisdom herself proceeded the 
words : " And they twain shall be one 
flesh," knows as much as he. If M. 
Michelet has learned from medical men 
that woman is not the impure creature 
that unnatural middle-age asceticism 
made of her, so much the better. But 
he who has read in Genesis that she 
was made man's "help-meet," bone of 
his bone, and flesh of his flesh, can 
never be tempted, unless bewildered 
with lying traditions or puffed up with 

Spiritualistic Materialism Michelet. 


false spiritual pride, to think otherwise 
of her. If he insist that by her consti- 
tution she has a constantly recurrent 
cause of disease within her, St. Paul's 
words, "the weaker vessel," command 
of stronger man all the deference and 
indulgence to which M. Michelet would 
persuade him. In short, mix together 
the few texts I have alluded to, with 
those other ones of Gen. ii. 25, and 
Gen. iii. 16, and dilute them with 
an infinite quantity of French fine 
writing, and you have the whole of 
" L' Amour," so ,far as it has any moral 
worth whatever. And he who chooses 
to meditate upon the " Song of Songs/' 
both in itself, as the divine sanction of 
sensuous love as being the only ade- 
quate mirror of spiritual, and in its 
position in the sacred volume between 
Ecclesiasticus, the book of worldly ex- 
perience, and Isaiah, the book of pro- 
phetic insight, as indicating the link 
which earthly love supplies between the 
two, will feel that 450 pages of French 
prose are but a poor exchange for its 
lyric lessons. 

What is wanting indeed to M. 
Michelet's " true love"? Not self-con- 
templation ; not the effort to be self- 
wrapped. But everything below 
everything above. The rock of a divine 
command on which man or woman can 
stand and say, I ought, and to the 
Tempter, Thou shalt not. The sense of 
an Almighty Love by whom each is up- 
held, on whose bosom each may sink, 
and feel that " underneath are the ever- 
lasting arms." The light of a Word 
made Flesh, who has suffered all our 
sufferings, borne all our sins. The help 
of a Spirit of Truth, who will guide us 
into all truth, though through never so 
much of doubt, and darkness, and de- 
spair. The beholding of the joy of a 
divine marriage, of the redeemed church 
with its Saviour, of which every smallest 
wedded joy of earth is a ray, towards 
which every truth of pure human love 
is an aspiration. The abiding and 
restful sense of subordination in har- 
monic unity, link after link in a divine 
chain; a subordination that lifts and 
does not lower, that joins and not 

divides ; gathering up successively all 
desire into a nobler object, all life into 
a mightier focus, man the head of the 
woman, Christ the head of man, 
God the head of Christ. 

And for want of these, his whole 
purpose makes shipwreck. He promises 
woman her enfranchisement ; but it is 
only to jail her within her own physical 
constitution, with her husband for turn- 
key. He lavishes his fancy on what 
may be called the lyrics of the flesh ; 
but he does not trust that poor flesh for 
a moment; he is always watching it, 
spying it ; his " medication " of heart or 
body presupposes and leaves it as frail 
and false as any Jesuit folio of casuistry. 
It has been well said, indeed, of the 
work by M. Emile Monte"gut that it is 
essentially a Romanist book, which had 
been unwritable and incomprehensible 
anywhere else than in a Roman Catholic 
country. The whole, in fact, of M. 
Michelet's work affords evidence of that 
"invincible ignorance" to use a term of 
Romish theology of Christ and of the 
Bible which Romanism leaves behind it 
in most souls, if it should come to 
depart from them. M. Michelet has 
no doubt read the Bible ; he is familiar 
with religious works, both Protestant 
and Romish ; he has himself written 
" Memoirs of Luther." And yet it may 
not be too much to say that he has never 
once seen Christ. This is even more 
evident in his last work, " La Femme," 
of which I have now to say a few 

"La Femme" is in some parts a 
mere repetition, in many a dilution, of 
" L'Amour." It is on the whole less 
mawkish, but more wearisome. The 
writer's dissective tendencies rise in it 
to absolute rapture. A child's brain 
becomes in his pages "a broad and 
mighty camellia," "the flower of flowers," 
" the most touching beauty that nature 
has realized." But the work covers in 
some respects a new field. The hypo- 
thetical wife whom he exhibited in 
"L'Amour" was after all, as I have 
said, some existing Frenchwoman 
brought up in Romanism, having, ac- 
cording to the writer, everything to 


Spiritualistic Materialism Michelet. 

unlearn from her free-minded husband, 
but at the same time most will ing to do 
so. This last trait, however, it would 
seem, was so far from reality as to spoil 
the picture. The second work then 
comes in to supply the true female 

The great fact of the time, M. Michelet 
tells us, patent to all, is, that man lives 
apart from, woman, and that more and 
more. Woman is left behind by man. 
Even a drawing-room divides into two 
one of men, one of women. The 
attempt to make men and women speak 
together only creates a silence. They 
have no more ideas in common no 
more a common language. In his in- 
troduction, the most valuable part of 
the volume, M. Michelet inquires rapidly 
into the social and economical causes of 
this alienation, quoting many interesting, 
some harrowing and hideous facts. 
Imagine this for instance, as to the 
venal tyranny of the theatrical press, 
in a country such as France, where 
political freedom is gagged : An actress 
comes to a theatrical critic, to ask him 
why he is always writing her down. 
The answer is that she was somewhat 
favourably treated at first, and ought to 
have sent some solid mark of gratitude. 
" ' But I am so poor ; I gain next to 
' nothing ; I have a mother to main- 
' tain.' ' What do I care ? take a lover.' 
' ' But I am not pretty I am so sad 
' men are only in love with cheerful 
' women.' ' No, you won't bamboozle 
' me ; you are pretty, young lady, it is 
' only ill-will : you are proud, which 
' is bad. You must do as others you 
' must have a lover.' " M. Michelet 
seems to speak of this from personal 
experience. I wish he had added that 
he had flung the hound of a penny-a- 
liner out of window. 

Taking up, then, in the nineteenth 
century the work of F6nelon in the 
seventeenth, M. Michelet adopts for 
special subject the education of girls, 
with a view to filling the gap between 
the sexes. " Woman," he tells us, " is 
a religion." The education of a girl 
is therefore " to harmonize a religion," 
whilst that of a boy is "to organize a 

force." In his views on the subject of 
female education, much will be found 
that is suggestive and beautiful. But 
the main point still remains if Avoman 
is a religion, how is she to have one ? 
" She must have a faith," we are told by 
the writer ; logic would seem to require 
that that faith should be in her own 
self. What it is to be is really most 
difficult to discover. Towards ten or 
twelve, her father is to give her some 
select readings from original writers ; 
narratives from Herodotus ; the Retreat 
of the Ten Thousand ; "some beautiful 
narrations from the Bible," the Odyssey, 
and "our modern Odyssey s, our good 
travellers." Even before these, it would 
seem, she should have some " sound 
" and original readings .... some of 
" the truly ethereal hymns of the Vedas, 
" such and such prayers and laws of 
" Persia, so pure and so heroic, join- 
" ing to these several of the touching 
" Biblical pastorals Jacob, Ruth, To- 
"bit," &c. The Bible itself must be 
kept aloof. Most of its books seem 
to M. Michelet to have been written 
after dark at night. God forbid that 
one should trouble too soon a young 
heart with the divorce of man from God, 
of the son from his father ; with the 
dreadful problem of the origin of evil! 
. . . The book is not soft and enervating 
like the mystics of the middle ages ; 
but it is too stormy, thick, restless. 
" Another motive again, which would 
" make me hesitate to read this too soon, 
" is the hatred of nature which the Jews 
" express everywhere. . . . This gives 
" to their books a negative, critical cha- 
" racter; a character of gloomy austerity, 
" which is yet not always pure ..." 
Better read " in the Bible of light, the 
" Zend Avesta, the ancient and sacred 
" complaint of the cow to man, to recall 
" to him the benefits which he owes 
" her ..." 

The subject is too grave for joking. 
But only imagine bringing up a girl 
upon cow-laments from the Zend Avesta, 
and keeping the Bible from her handrf ! 
Is it possible too for a man to read more 
completely into a book his own preju- 
dices against it? Where, except in the in- 

Spiritualistic Materialism MicJielet. 


Iranian asceticism of the Romish middle 
ages, or in extreme Scotch Calvinism, 
do you find any trace of that " hatred of 
nature" which M. Michelet fathers upon 
the Bible 1 From the first page to the 
last, it is the book of nature almost as 
much as it is the book of man. Hatred 
of nature ! No, the intensest sympathy 
which can yet consist with man's dignity, 
as God's vice-king over nature, made to 
have dominion over fish and fowl, cattle 
and creeping thing ; over " all the earth," 
which he is not only commanded to 
"replenish," but to "subdue." He is to 
sympathise with nature under every 
aspect, from every point of view ; as 
comprised with him in that creation, of 
whose absolute order and beauty it is 
written that -"God saw everytliing that 
" He had made, and behold it was very 
"good;" as suffering, guiltless, through 
his fall, and cursed for his sake alone ; 
as " groaning and travailing in pain 
together " with him for a common deli- 
verance, as assured of a common perfec- 
tion in the New Heaven and the New 
Earth. It is not enough that he is 
taught by Prophet, Psalmist, Apostle 
by none more assiduously than by the 
Saviour Himself to look on the face of 
nature as a mirror wherein are revealed 
the mysteries of the Kingdom of God. 
He is called on to look on her as a 
fellow-servant ; her obedience is re- 
peatedly contrasted with his revolt. 
"The stork in the heavens knoweth 
" her appointed times ; and the turtle, 
" and the crane, and the swallow observe 
" the time of their coming ; but my 
" people know not the judgment of the 
" Lord." " The ox knoweth his owner, 
" and the ass his master's crib, but 
" Israel doth not know, my people doth 
" not consider." Nay, she is more than 
a fellow-servant, she is a fellow-wor- 
shipper. Prophet nor Psalmist can 
satisfy their raptures of devotion, unless 
they call upon her to share them : 
"Sing, heavens, and be joyful, 
" earth, and break forth into singing, 
" O mountains." " Let the heaven re- 
" joice, and let the earth be glad ; let the 
" field be joyful, and all that therein is ; 
" yea let all the trees of the wood rejoice 
No. 7. VOL. ii. 

' before the Lord." " Praise the Lord 

' upon earth, ye dragons and all deeps ; 

' fire and haU, snow and vapours, stormy 

'wind fulfilling his word; mountains 

'and all hills, fruitful trees and all 

' cedars, beasts and all cattle, worms 

' and feathered fowls." ..." Let every- 

' thing that hath breath praise the 

' Lord." If this be hatred of nature, ' 

may every one of us enter more and 

more into the infinite fervent charity of 

such hatred ! Is it not more likely to 

lift the soul of girl or boy than the 

sentimental self-consciousness of some 

ancient Parsee cow, mooing over her 

own. ill-requited services ? Will any 

worship of the bull Apis ever give 

such a sense of the real preciousness of 

animal life, as that last verse of the 

Book of Jonah : " Should I not spare 

' Nineveh, that great city, wherein are 

' more than six-score thousand persons, 

' that cannot discern between their right 

'hand and their left hand; and also 

'much cattle ?" 

I suspect the physiological period of 
M. Michelet' s career will be the last. 
Read in the light of his two latest works, 
I think his earlier ones the " Introduc- 
tion to Universal History" for instance 
bear testimony that the whole ten- 
dency of his mind has always been 
towards the spiritualistic materialism, as 
I prefer to call it the "mystic sen- 
sualism," as it has been called by a 
French Protestant critic of which 
" L' Amour," and " La Femme," are the 
direct exponents. Jn "La Femme" we 
cannot fail to perceive a senile garrulity, 
which marks that the writer has fully 
passed the climax of his genius, a climax 
which may perhaps be fixed at " The 
Bird." I have generally felt compelled, 
in translating from him, to abridge also. 
I doubt if he has much henceforth to 
tell us that is new. Indeed, the moral 
side of " La Femme," is already to be 
found fully indicated in the much earlier 
" Priests, Women, and Families." 

I have called the doctrine of these 
works " materialism." I know that 
none would protest more strongly 
against the application to them of such 
a term than the writer. " I have 


Spiritualistic Materialism Michelet. 

spent all my life," he tells us, "in 
claiming the rights of the soul against 
the nauseous materialism of my time." 
Again and again he uses the term as 
one of the utmost reproach. And yet 
the books are essentially materialistic. 
The physical organization of woman is 
made practically the standard of her 
capacity for perceiving right and wrong. 
Love is made, in fact, its own end, al- 
though announced as a means of moral 
enfranchisement. Nothing is shown to 
the woman above the man, unless it be, 
and in such proportions as he chooses 
to show it her, some misty idea of the 
great harmony, " in which we should 
wish to die as much as to live, in the just 
and regular law of the All." Through 
this "all" may indeed hover the name 
of God, but more as a ghost deprived 
of its last resting-place, than as He that 
Is. The writer may indeed tell us that 
he "cannot do without God;" that "the 
" momentary eclipse of the high central 
"idea darkens this marvellous modern 
" world of sciences and discoveries ;" that 
the unity of the world is love ; that 
woman feels the infinite " in the loving 
"cause and the father of nature, who 
"procreates her from the good to the 
" better." Yet what is this beyond mere 
Pantheistic Hindooism, drenched in ver- 
biage? Heine, we are told, called M. 
Michelet a Hindoo. One feels tempted 
to say, Let him be so in good earnest. 
God for god, I prefer Vishnu to the 
thin shadow of him which flits through 
M. Michelet's pages. Any one of his 
avatars would be preferable for me to 
that repulsive Egyptian myth of Isis, 
(a mother by her twin brother ere her 
birth), which M. Michelet tells us has 
never been exceeded, which he offers as 
food to the " common faith" of husband 
and wife. Again, he may give us a 
chapter, and a very touching one too, 
on " love beyond the grave," in which 
he exhibits to us the departed husband 
discoursing on immortality to his widow. 
But after all, what assurance have we 
that such a colloquy is any more, was 
even meant to be any more, than a piece 
of sentimental ventriloquism 1 The 
pledge of immortality is not one that 

can be given by mortal to mortal. " Be- 
cause I live, ye shall live also." When 
He who is the Source and Lord of life 
tells us so, we may believe and hope. 
" Because I died, thou shalt live." Can 
even the madness of unsatisfied love 
make more than a temporary plaything 
of such an assurance ? 

But I have called the doctrine of these 
works, spiritualistic materialism. I do 
not care for the strangeness of the expres- 
sion, if by means of it I can only waken 
up those who are content to rest upon 
the traditions, opinions, prejudices of 
past days, to some sense of the strange 
and new things with which they have 
now to deal. If they would be prepared 
to combat whatever is evil and deadly 
in the doctrine of which I am speaking, 
let them utterly put out of their minds 
all conceptions of a materialist as of 
a man wallowing in sensual indul- 
gencies, denying the very idea of right ; 
or even as of a hard-minded logician, 
treating as impossible all that he can- 
not see, scoffing at faith as at a child 
grasping for the moon, or for his own 
image in the mirror. Michelet, in- 
deed, proclaims himself a spiritualist ; 
he "cannot do without God ;" faith in 
a spirit of love, if scarcely of truth, 
breathes throughout his pages. What 
I have ventured to term his materialism 
comes forth in the name and on behalf 
of morality ; for the restoration of the 
purity of marriage, of the harmony of 
the family. As the frank and eloquent 
witness against the corruptions of that 
purity and harmony in our social state, 
he deserves all our sympathy and res- 
pect. We may not, thank God, have 
reached yet in free Protestant England 
that depth of cold cynicism which he 
indignantly exhibits to us, when he 
repeats, as an ear- witness, the advice of 
a husband and a father living in the 
country, to a young man of the neigh- 
bourhood : "If you are to remain here, 
"you must marry, but if you live in 
" Paris, it is not worth while. It is too 
" easy to do otherwise." But that is all 
the greater reason why we should in 
time beware, lest we should ever be 
carried away, on the same or other 

Spiritualistic Materialism Michelet. 


slopes, to the same gulf. We have 
nothing, God knows, to boast of. Peni- 
tentiaries, I fear, receive generally but the 
heaviest dregs of the seething caldron 
of female vice. Midnight tea-meetings 
will, I fear, do little more than skim off a 
little froth from its surface. Neither 
the one nor the other either lessen the 
demand, or even attack the supply in its 
sources, in those ill-paid labours which 
the cursed thirst for cheapness tends to 
multiply, in that money- worship which 
makes wealth as such honourable, and 
poverty the worst of shames, in those 
plutonomic doctrines which are erected 
into a faith for states or for individuals, 
and which tend to supplant everywhere 
duty by interest, the living force of 
" Thou shalt " by the restraining doubt 
" Will it pay ? " Michelet has at least 
the merit of attempting a radical cure 
for the evil. He addresses man rather 
than woman ; and he is right. He 
seeks to conquer lust by love ; and he 
is right. His folly lies in treating 
earthly love as if it could be its own 
centre, its own self-renewing source. 

That folly has been pointed out ere 
this in France itself by manlier and 
nobler pens than his own. M. Emile 
Monte"gut, in the " Eevue des Deux 
Mondes," for December 1858, has com- 
plained of the absence in M. Michelet's 
ideal marriage of the true freedom of 
the soul, " of those great moral and 
religious laws" which formerly presided 
over it ; has told him that love, as he 
represents it, wounds the dignity of 
man, enervates, effeminates him ^ that 
the home he paints is little more than 
the "retreat of two selfish voluptuaries." 
These are hard words, harder than I 
have ventured to use. And yet the 
French critic concludes, as I would fain 
do myself, with expressing the hope 
that M. Michelet's writings may not be 
without their use, that they may have 
some effect for good on many "an 
opaque and dried-up brain," on many 
'a dry vain heart," on many poor crea- 

tures prone to brutality, to sensual 
ferocity, to barbarous selfishness. In- 
deed already and long ere this, as M. 
Michelet tells us himself, the witness 
which he has borne for moral purity 
has not been without its fruits. Whilst 
he was yet professor, a young man one 
morning burst into his room, to give 
him the news that the masters of certain 
cafe's, of certain other well-known houses, 
complained of his teaching. Their es- 
tablishments were losing by it. Young 
men were imbibing a mania of serious 
conversation, forgetting their habits. 
The students' balls ran risk of closing. 
All who gained by the amusements of 
the schools deemed themselves threa- 
tened by a moral revolution. How 
many of our preachers could say as 

For us, Englishmen, bound as we are 
in charity to indulgence towards M. 
Michelet by the almost invariable mis- 
takes which he makes whenever he 
speaks of us or of our country, we 
need not fear, I take it, even the worst 
influences of his teaching ; it is too 
essentially French to affect us. We 
may fear however, and we ought to 
fear, that refined materialism of which 
it is one of the symptoms, which con- 
founds worship with a certain religiosity, 
replaces faith by sentiments, and affects 
to see God in nature everywhere, but 
in nature only. Crown him, girdle 
him, smother him with flowers, the 
Nature-god is at bottom but a bundle 
of cruel forces and lawless lusts, the 
Krishna of the sixteen thousand gopis is 
the same, through whose flaming jaws 
Arjuna saw generation after generation 
of created beings rush headlong to 
destruction. But against such Pan- 
theism, overt or latent, in the gristle or 
in the bone, there is no better preserva- 
tion than the Pantfieism, if I may use 
the term, of Christianity. None will 
ever be temp ted 'to worship nature less, 
than he who has learnt to see her divine 
in God. 






MY readers have now been steadily at 
Oxford for six months without moving. 
Most people find such a spell of the 
place without a change quite as much 
as they care to take ; moreover it may 
do our hero good to let him alone for 
a number, that he may have time to look 
steadily into the pit which he has been 
so near falling into, which is still 
yawning awkwardly in his path ; more- 
over, the exigencies of a story-teller 
must lead him away from home now 
and then. Like the rest of us, his 
family must have change of air, or he 
has to go off to see a friend properly 
married, or a connexion buried: to wear 
white or black gloves with or for some 
one, carrying such sympathy as he can 
with him, that so he may come back 
from every journey, however short, with 
a wider horizon. Yes ; to come back 
home after every stage of life's journey- 
ing with a wider horizon, more in sym- 
pathy with men and nature, knowing 
ever more of the righteous and eternal 
laws which govern them, and of the 
righteous and loving will which is above 
all, and around all, and beneath all, this 
must be the end and aim of all of us, or 
we shall be wandering about blindfold, 
and spending time and labour and jour- 
ney-money on that which profiteth no- 
thing. So now I must ask my readers 
to forget the old buildings and quad- 
rangles of the fairest of England's cities, 
the caps and the gowns, the reading and 
rowing, for a short space, and take a 
flight with me to other scenes and pas- 
tures new. 

The nights are pleasant in May, short 
and pleasant for travel. We will leave 
the ancient city asleep, and do our flight 
in the night to save time. Trust your- 
selves then to the story-teller's aerial 
machine. It is but a rough affair, I own, 

rough and humble, unfitted for high or 
great flights, with no gilded panels, or 
dainty cushions, or C-springs not that 
we shall care about springs, by the way, 
until we alight on terra firina again 
still, there is much to be learned in a 
third-class carriage if we will only not 
look for the cushions and fine panels, 
and forty miles an hour travelling in it, 
and will not be shocked at our fellow- 
passengers for being weak in their h's 
and smelling of fustian. Mount in it, 
then, you who will after this warning; 
the fares are holiday fares, the tickets 
return tickets. Take with you nothing 
but the poet's luggage, 

" A smile for Hope, a tear for Pain, 
A breath to swell the voice of. 

and may you have a pleasant journey, 
for it is time that the stoker should be 
looking to his going gear !_, 

So now we rise slowly in the moon- 
light from St. Ambrose's quadrangle, 
and, when we are clear of the clock- 
tower, steer away southwards, over 
Oxford 'city and all its sleeping wisdom 
and folly, over street and past spire, 
over Christ Church and the canons' 
houses, and the fountain in Tom quad ; 
over St. Aldate's and the river, along 
which the moonbeams lie in a pathway of 
twinkling silver, over the rail way sheds 
no, there was then no railway, but only 
the quiet fields and footpaths of Hincksey 
hamlet. Well, no matter ; at any rate, 
the hills beyond and Bagley Wood were 
there then as now : and over hills and 
wood we rise, catcliing the purr of the 
night-jar, the trill of the nightingale, 
and the first crow of the earliest cock 
pheasant, as he stretches his jewelled 
wings, conscious of his strength and his 
beauty, heedless of the fellows of St. 
John's, who slumber within sight of his 
perch, on whose hospitable board he 
shall one day lie prone on his hick, with 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 

fair larded breast turned upwards for 
the carving knife, having crowed his 
last crow. He knows it not ; what 
matters it to him? If he knew it, 
could a Bagley Wood cock-pheasant desire 
a better ending ? 

"We pass over the vale beyond ; hall 
and hamlet, church and meadow, and 
copse folded in mist and shadow below 
us, each hamlet holding in its bosom the 
materials of three-volumed novels by 
the dozen, if we could only pull off the 
roofs of the houses and look steadily 
into the interiors ; but our destination 
is farther yet. The faint white streak 
behind the distant Chilterns reminds us 
that we have no time for gossip by the 
way ; May nights are short, and the sun 
will be up by four. No matter; our 
journey will now be soon over, for the 
broad vale is crossed, and the chalk hills 
and downs beyond. Larks quiver up 
by us, " higher ever higher," hastening 
up to get a first glimpse of the coming 
monarch, careless of food, flooding the 
fresh air with song. Steady plodding 
rooks labour along below us, and lively 
starlings rush by on the look-out for the 
early worm; lark and swallow, rook and 
starling, each on his appointed round. 
The sun arises, and they get them to it ; 
he is up now, and these breezy uplands 
over which we hang are swimming in 
the light of horizontal rays, though the 
shadows and mists still lie on the 
wooded dells which slope away south- 

Here let us bring to, over the village 
of Englebourn, and try to get acquainted 
with the outside of the place before the 
good folk are about and we have to go 
down among them, and their sayings 
and doings. 

The village lies on the southern slopes 
of the Berkshire hills, on the opposite 
side to that under which our hero was 
born. Another soil altogether is here, we 
remark in the first place. This is nobu 
chalk, this high knoll which rises above 
one may almost say hangs over the 
village, crowned with Scotch firs, its 
sides tufted with gorse and heather. It 
is the Hawk's Lynch, the favourite resort 
of Englebourn folk, who come up for 

the view, for the air, because their 
fathers and mothers came up before 
them; because they came up themselves 
as children from an instinct which 
moves them all in leisure hours and 
Sunday evenings, when the sun shines 
and the birds sing, whether they care 
for view or air or not Something guides 
all their feet hitherward ; the children, 
to play hide-and-seek and look for nests 
in the gorse-bushes ; young men and 
maidens, to saunter and look and talk, 
as they will till the world's end or as 
long, at any rate, as the Hawk's Lynch 
and Englebourn last and to cut their 
initials, inclosed in a true lover's knot, 
on the short rabbit's turf ; steady married 
couples, to plod along together consulting 
on hard times and growing families ; 
even old tottering men, who love to sit 
at the feet of the firs, with chins leaning 
on their sticks, prattling of days long 
past to any one who will listen, or look- 
ing silently with dim eyes into the sum- 
mer air, feeling perhaps in their spirits 
after a wider and more peaceful view 
which will soon open for them. A 
common knoll, open to all, up in the 
silent air, well away from every-day 
Englebourn life, with the Hampshire 
range and the distant Beacon Hill lying 
soft on the horizon, and nothing higher 
between you and the southern sea, what 
a blessing the Hawk's Lynch is to the 
village folk, one and all ! May Heaven 
and a thankless soil long preserve it and 
them from an inclosure under the Act ! 
There is much temptation lying about, 
though, for the inclosers of the world. 
The rough common land, you see, 
stretches over the whole of the knoll, 
and down to its base, and away along 
the hills behind, of which the Hawk's 
Lynch is an outlying spur. Rough 
common land, broken only by pine 
woods of a few acres each in extent, an 
occasional woodman's or squatter's cottage 
and little patch of attempted garden. 
But immediately below, and on eack 
flank of the spur, and half-way up the ' 
slopes, come small farm inclosures break- 
ing here and there the belt of wood 
lands, which generally lies between the 
rough wild upland and the cultivated 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

country below. As you stand on the 
knoll you can see the common land just 
below you at its foot narrow into a mere 
road, with a border of waste on each 
side, which runs into Englebourn Street. 
At the end of the straggling village 
stands the church with its square tower, 
a lofty grey stone building, with bits of 
fine decorated architecture about it, but 
much of churchwarden Gothic super- 
vening. The churchyard is large, and 
the graves, as you can see plainly even 
from this distance, are all crowded on 
the southern side. The rector's sheep 
are feeding in the northern part nearest 
to us, and a small gate at one corner 
opens into his garden. The rectory 
looks large and comfortable, and its 
grounds well cared for and extensive, 
with a rookery of elms at the lawn's 
end. It is the chief house of the place, 
for there is no resident squire. The 
principal street contains a few shops, 
some dozen perhaps in all ; and several 
f^rm houses lie a little back from it, 
with garden in front, and yards and 
barns and orchards behind ; and there 
are two public houses. The other dwel- 
lings are mere cottages, and very bad 
ones for the most part, with floors below 
the level of the street. Almost every 
house in the village is thatched, which 
adds to the beauty though not to the 
comfort of the place. The rest of the 
population who do not live in the street 
are dotted about the neighbouring lanes, 
chiefly towards the west, on our right 
as we look down from the Hawk's Lynch. 
On this side the country is more open, 
and here most of the farmers live, as we 
may see by the number of homesteads. 
And there is a small brook on that side 
too, which with careful damming is made 
to turn a mill, there where you see the 
clump of poplars. On our left as we 
look down, the country to the east of 
the village, is thickly wooded ; but we 
can see that there is a village green on 
that side, and a few scattered cottages, 
the farthest of which stands looking out 
like a little white eye, from the end of 
a dense copsa 

Beyond it there is no sign of habita- 
tion for some two miles ; then you can 

see the tall chimneys of a great house, 
and a well-timbered park round it. The 
Grange is not in Englebourn parish 
happily for that parish, one is sorry to 
remark. It must be a very bad squire 
who does not do more good than harm 
by living in a country village. But 
there are very bad squires, and the 
owner of the Grange is one of them. 
He is, however, for the most part, an 
absentee, so that we are little concerned 
with him, and in fact, have only to 
notice this one of his bad habits, that 
he keeps that long belt of woodlands, 
which runs into Englebourn parish, and 
comes almost up to the village, full of 
hares and pheasants. He has only suc- 
ceeded to the property some three or 
four years, and yet the head of game on 
the estate, and above all in the woods, 
has trebled or quadrupled. Pheasants 
by hundreds are reared under hens, 
from eggs bought in London, and run 
about the keepers' houses as tame as 
barn-door fowls all the summer. 
When the first party comes down 
for the first ~battue early in October, 
it is often as much as the beaters can do 
to persuade these pampered fowls that 
they are wild game, whose duty it is to 
get up and fly away and be shot at. 
However, they soon learn more of the 
world such of them, at least, as are not 
slain and are unmistakeable wild birds 
in a few days. Then they take to roost- 
ing farther from their old haunts, more 
in the outskirts of the woods, and the 
time comes for others besides the squire's 
guests to take their education in hand, 
and teach pheasants at least that they 
are no native British birds. These 
are a wild set, living scattered about 
the wild country ; turf-cutters, broom- 
makers, squatters, with indefinite occu- 
pations and nameless habits, a race hated 
of keepers and constables. These have 
increased and flourished of late years; 
and, notwithstanding the imprisonments 
and transportations which deprive them 
periodically of the most enterprising 
members of their community, one and 
all give thanks for the day when the 
owner of the Grange took to pheasant 
breeding. If the demoralization stopped 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


with them, little harm might come of it, 
as they would steal fowls in the home- 
steads if there were no pheasants in the 
woods which latter are less dangerous 
to get, and Avorth more when gotten. 
But, unhappily, this method of earning 
a livelihood has strong attractions, and 
is catching ; and the cases of farm 
labourers who get into trouble about 
game are more frequent season by 
season in the neighbouring parishes, 
and Englebourn is no better than the 
rest. And the men are not likely to be 
much discouraged from these practices, 
or taught better, by the farmers ; for, if 
there is one thing more than another 
that drives that sturdy set of men, the 
Englebourn yeomen, into a frenzy, it is 
talk of the game in the Grange covers. 
Not that they dislike sport ; they like it 
too well, and, moreover, have been used 
to their fair share of it. For the late 
squire left the game" entirely in their 
hands. " You know best how much 
game your land will carry without 
serious damage to the crops," he used 
to say. " I like to show my friends a 
fair day's sport when they are with me, 
and to have enough game to supply the 
house and make a few presents. Beyond 
that it is no affair of mine. You can 
course whenever you like ; and let me 
know when you want a day's shooting, 
and you shall have it." Under this 
system the yeomen became keen sports- 
men ; they and all their labourers took 
an interest in preserving, and the whole 
district would have risen on a poacher. 
The keeper's place became a sinecure, 
and the squire had as much game as he 
wanted without expense, and was, more- 
over, the most popular man in the 
county. Even after the new man came, 
and all was changed, the mere revoca- 
tion of their sporting liberties, and the 
increase of game, unpopular as these 
things were, would not alone have made 
the farmers so bitter, and have raised 
that sense of* outraged justice in them. 
But with these changes came in a cus- 
tom new in the country the custom of 
selling the game. At first the report 
was not believed ; but soon it became 
notorious that no head of game from the 

Grange estates was ever given away, 
that not only did the tenants never get a 
brace of birds or a hare, or the labourers 
a rabbit, but not one of the gentlemen 
who helped to kill the game ever found 
any of the bag in his dog-cart after the 
day's shooting. Nay, so shameless had 
the system become, and so highly was 
the art of turning the game to account 
cultivated at the Grange, that the 
keepers sold powder and shot to any 
of the guests who had emptied their 
own belts or flasks at something 
over the market retail price. The 
light cart drove to the market-town 
twice a week in the season, loaded 
heavily with game, but more heavily 
with the hatred and scorn of the far- 
mers ; and, if deep and bitter curses 
could break patent axles or necks, the 
new squire and his game-cart would not 
long have vexed the country side. As 
it was, not a man but his own tenants 
would salute him in the market-place ; 
and these repaid themselves for the un- 
willing courtesy by bitter reflections on 
a squire who was mean enough to pay 
his butcher's and poulterer's bill out of 
their pockets. 

Alas, that the manly instinct of sport 
which is so strong in all of us English- 
men which sends Oswell's single- 
handed against the mightiest beasts 
that walk the earth, and takes the poor 
cockney journeyman out a ten . miles' 
walk almost before daylight on the rare 
summer holiday mornings, to angle with 
rude tackle inreservoir or canal should 
be dragged through such mire as this in 
many an English shire in our day. If 
English landlords want to go on shoot- 
ing game much longer, they must give 
up selling it. For if selling game be- 
comes the rule, and not the exception 
(as it seems likely to do before long), 
good-bye to sport in England. Every 
man who loves his country more than 
his pleasures or his pocket and, thank 
God, that includes the great majority of 
us yet, however much we may delight 
in gun and rod, let Mr. Bright and every 
demagogue in the land say what they 
please will cry, " Down with it," and 
lend a hand to put it down for ever. 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

But, to return to our perch on the 
Hawk's Lynch above Englebourn village. 
As I was saying just now, when the 
sight of the distant Grange and its 
woods interrupted me, there is no squire 
living here. The rector is the fourth of 
his race who holds the family living a 
kind, easy-going, gentlemanly old man, 
a Doctor of Divinity, as becomes his 
position, though he only went into 
orders because there was the living ready 
for him. In his day he had been a good 
magistrate and neighbour, living with, 
and much in the same way as, the 
squires round about! But his contem- 
poraries had dropped off one by one ; 
his own health had long been failing; 
his wife was dead ; and the young gene- 
ration did not seek him. His work and 
the parish had no real hold on him ; so 
he had nothing to fall back on, and had 
become a confirmed invalid, seldom 
leaving the house and garden even to go 
to church, and thinking more of his 
dinner and his health than of all other 
things in earth or heaven. 

The only child who remained at home 
with him was a daughter, a girl of nine- 
teen or thereabouts, whose acquaintance 
we shall make presently, and who was 
doing all that a good heart and sound 
head prompted in nursing an old hypo- 
chondriac and filling his place in the 
parish. But though the old man was 
weak and selfish, he was kind in his 
way, and ready to give freely, or to do 
anything which his daughter suggested 
for the good of his people, provided the 
trouble were taken off his shoulders. 
In the year before our tale opens he had 
allowed some thirty acres of his glebe to 
be parcelled out in allotments amongst 
the poor ; and his daughter spent almost 
what she pleased in clothing-clubs, 
and sick-clubs, and the school, without a 
word from him. Whenever he did 
remonstrate, she managed to get what 
she wanted out of the house-money, or 
her own allowance. 

We must make acquaintance with 
such other of the inhabitants as it con- 
cerns us to know in the course of the 
story ; for it is broad daylight, and the 
Tillagers will be astir directly. Folk who 

go to bed before nine, after a hard day's 
work, get into the habit of turning out 
soon after the sun calls them. So now, 
descending from the Hawk's Lynch, we 
will alight at the east end of Engle- 
bourn, opposite the little white cottage 
which looks out at the end of the great 
wood, near the village-green. 

Soon after five on that bright Sunday 
morning, Harry Winburn unbolted the 
door of his mother's cottage, and stepped 
out in his shirt-sleeves on to the little 
walk in front, paved with pebbles. Per- 
haps some of my readers will recognise 
the name of an old acquaintance, and 
wonder how he got here; so I shall 
explain at once. Soon after our hero 
went to school, Harry's father had 
died of a fever. He had been a 
journeyman blacksmith, and in the re- 
fceipt, consequently, of rather better 
wages than generally fall to the lot of 
the peasantry, but not enough to leave 
much of a margin over current expendi- 
ture. Moreover, the Winburns had 
always been open-handed with whatever 
money they had ; so that all he left for 
his widow and child, of worldly goods, 
was their " few sticks " of furniture, 5 
in the Savings' -bank, and the money 
from his burial-club, which was not more 
than enough to give him a creditable 
funeral that object of honourable am- 
bition to all the independent poor. He 
left, however, another inheritance to 
them, which is in price above rubies, 
neither shall silver be named in com- 
parison thereof, the inheritance of an 
honest name, of which his Avidow was 
proud, and which was not likely to 
suffer in her hands. 

After the funeral, she removed to 
Englebourn, her own native village, and 
kept her old father's house, till his 
death. He was one of the woodmen 
to the Grange, and lived in the cottage 
at the corner of the wood in which 
his work lay. When ,he too died, 
hard times came on Widow Winburn. 
The steward allowed her to keep on 
the cottage. The rent was a sore bur- 
then to her, but she would sooner have 
starved than leave it. Parish relief was 
out of the question for her father's child 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


and her husband's widow ; so she turned 
her hand to every odd job which offered, 
and went to work in the fields when 
nothing else could be had. Whenever 
there was sickness in the place, she was 
an untiring nurse ; and, at ono time, for 
some nine months, she took the office of 
postman, and walked daily some nine 
miles through a severe winter. The 
fatigue and exposure had broken down 
her health, and made her an old woman 
before her time. At last, in a lucky 
hour, the doctor came to hear of her 
praiseworthy struggles, and gave her the 
rectory washing, which had made her 
life a comparatively easy one again. 

During all this time her poor neigh- 
bours had stood by her as the poor 
do stand by one another, helping her 
in numberless small ways, so that 
she had been able to realize the great 
object of her life, and keep Harry at 
school till he was nearly fourteen. By 
this time he had learned all that the 
village pedagogue could teach, and had 
in fact become an object of mingled 
pride and jealousy to that worthy man, 
who had his misgivings lest Harry's 
fame as a scholar should eclipse his own 
before many years were over. 

Mrs. Winburn's character was so good, 
that no sooner was her son ready for a 
place than a place was ready for him ; 
he stepped at once inlo the dignity of 
carter's boy, and his earnings, when 
added to his mother's, made them com- 
fortable enough. Of course she was 
wrapped up in him, and believed that 
there was no such boy in the parish. 
And indeed she was nearer the truth 
than most mothers, for he soon grew into 
a famous specimen of a countryman ; tall 
and lithe, full of nervous strength, and 
not yet bowed down or stiffened by 
the constant toil of a labourer's daily 
life. In these matters, however, he had 
rivals in the village ; but in intellectual 
accomplishments he was unrivalled. He 
was full of learning according to the 
village standard, could write and cipher 
well, was fond of reading such books as 
came in his Avay, and spoke his native 
English almost without an accent. He 
is one-and-twenty at the time when our 

story takes him up, a thoroughly skilled 
labourer, the best hedger and ditcher in 
the parish ; and, when his blood is up, he 
can shear hventy sheep in a day without 
razing the skin, or mow for sixteen hours 
at a stretch, with rests of half an hour 
for meals twice in the day. 

Harry shaded his eyes with his hand 
for a minute, as he stood outside the 
cottage drinking in the fresh pure air, 
laden with the scent of the honeysuckle 
which he had trained over the porch, 
and listening to the chorus of linnets 
and finches from the copse at the back 
of the house, and then set about the 
household duties, which he always 
made it a point of honour to attend to 
himself on Sundays. First he unshut- 
tered the little lattice-window of the 
room on the ground- floor ; a simple 
operation enough, for the shutter was a 
mere wooden flap, which was closed 
over the window at night, and bolted 
with a wooden bolt on the outside, and 
thrown back against, the wall in the 
daytime. Any one who would could 
have opened it at any moment of the 
night ; but the poor sleep sound without 
bolts. Then he took the one old bucket 
of the establishment, and strode away to 
the well on the village-green, and filled 
it with clear cold water, doing the same 
kind office for the vessels of two or 
three rosy little damsels and boys, of 
ages varying from ten to fourteen, who 
were already astir, and to whom the 
winding-up of the parish chain and 
bucket would have been a work of diffi- 
culty. Eeturning to the cottage, he 
proceeded to fill his mother's kettle, 
sweep the hearth, strike a light, and 
make up the fire with a faggot from the 
little stack in the corner of the garden. 
Then he haiiled the three-legged round 
table before the fire, and dusted it care- 
fully over, and laid out the black japan 
tea-tray with two delf cups and saucers 
of gorgeous pattern, and diminutive 
plates to match, and placed the sugar 
and slop basins, the big loaf and small 
piece of salt butter, in their accustomed 
places, and the little black teapot on 
the hob to get properly warm. There 
was little more to be done indoors, for 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 

the furniture was scanty enough ; but 
everything in turn received its fair 
share of attention, and the little 
room, with its sunken tiled floor and 
yellow-washed walls, looked cheerful 
and homely. Then Harry turned his 
attention to the shed of his own con- 
triving which stood beside the faggot- 
stack, and from which expostulatory and 
plaintive grunts had been issuing ever 
since his first appearance at the door, 
telling of a faithful and useful friend 
who was sharp set on Sunday mornings, 
and desired his poor breakfast, and to 
be dismissed for the day to pick up the 
rest of his livelihood with his brethren 
porkers of the village on the green and 
in the lanes. Harry served out to the 
porker the poor mess which the wash of 
the cottage and the odds and ends of 
the little garden aiforded; which that 
virtuous animal forthwith began to dis- 
cuss with both fore-feet in the trough 
by way, I suppose, of adding to the 
flavour while his master scratched him 
gently between the ears and on the 
back with a short stick till the repast 
was concluded. Then he opened the 
door of the stye, and the grateful animal 
rushed out into the lane, and away to 
the green with a joyful squeal and flirt 
of his hind quarters in the air ; and 
Harry, after picking a bunch of wall- 
flowers, and pansies, and hyacinths, a 
line of which flowers skirted the narrow 
garden walk, and, putting them in a 
long-necked glass which he took from 
the mantelpiece, proceeded to his morn- 
ing ablutions, ample materials for which 
remained at the bottom of the family 
bucket, which he had put down on a 
little bench by the side of the porch. 
These finished, he retired indoors to 
shave and dress himself, 



DAME WINBURN was not long after 
her son, and they sat down together to 
breakfast in their best Sunday clothes 
she, in plain large white cap, which 
covered all but a line of grey hair, a 
black stuff gown reaching to neck and 

wrists, and small silk neckerchief put on 
like a shawl ; a thin, almost gaunt, old 
woman, whom the years had not used 
tenderly, and who showed marks of their 
usage but a resolute, high-couraged soul, 
who had met hard times in the face, and 
could meet them again if need were. 
She spoke in broad Berkshire, and was 
otherwise a homely body, but self-pos- 
sessed and without a shade of real vul- 
garity in her composition. 

The widow looked with some anxiety 
at Harry as he took his seat. Although 
something of a rustic dandy, of late he 
had not been so careful in this matter 
as usual; but, in consequence of her 
reproaches, on this Sunday there was 
nothing to complain of. His black vel- 
veteen shooting-coat and cotton plush 
waistcoat, his brown corduroy knee 
breeches and gaiters sat on him well, and 
gave the world assurance of a well-to-do 
man, for few of the Englebourn labourers 
rose above smock-frocks and fustian 
trousers. He wore a blue bird's-eye 
handkerchief round his neck, and his 
shirt, though coarse in texture, was as 
white as the sun and the best laundress 
in Englebourn could manage to bleach it. 
There was nothing to find fault with in 
his dress therefore, but still his mother 
did not feel quite comfortable as she took 
stealthy glances at him, Harry was 
naturally rather a reserved fellow, and 
did not make much conversation himself, 
and his mother felt a little embarrassed 
on this particular morning. 

" It was not, therefore, until Dame 
Winburn had finished her first slice 
of bread and butter, and had sipped 
the greater .part of her second dish of 
tea out of her saucer, that she broke 

"I minded thy business last night, 
Harry, when I wur up at the rectory 
about the washin'. It's my belief as 
thou'lt get t'other 'lotment next quarter- 
day. The doctor spoke very kind about 
it, and said as how he heerd as high a 
character o' thee, young as thee hist, as 
of are' a man in the parish, and as how 
he wur set on lettin' the lots to they as'd 
do best by 'em ; only he said as the 
farmers went agin givin' more nor an 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


acre to any man as worked for them, and 
the doctor, you see, he don't Like to go 
altogether agin the vestry folk." 

" What business is it o' theirs," said 
Harry, " so long as they get their own 
work done 1 There's scarce one on 'em 
as hasn't more land already nor he can 
keep as should be, and for all that they 
want to snap up every bit as falls 
vacant, so as no poor man shall get it." 

"'Tis mostly so with them as has," 
said his mother, with a half-puzzled 
look ; " Scriptur says as to them shall 
be given, and they shall have more 
abundant." Dame Winburn spoke hesi- 
tatingly, and looked doubtfully at Harry, 
as a person who has shot with a strange 
gun, and knows not what effect the bolt 
may have. Harry was brought up all 
standing by this unexpected quotation 
of his mother's ; but, after thinking for 
a few moments while he cut himself a 
slice of bread, replied : 

"It don't say as those shall have 
more that can't use what they've got 
already. 'Tis a deal more like Naboth's 
vineyard for aught as I can see. But 
'tis little odds to me which way it 

" How canst talk so, Harry ?" said his 
mother reproachfully; " thou know'st 
thou wast set on it last fall, like a wapse 
on sugar. Why, scarce a day past but 
thou wast up to the rectory, to see the 
doctor about it ; and now thou'rt like 
to get it> thou'lt not go aginst 'un." 

Harry looked out at the open door, 
without answering. It was quite true 
that, in the last autumn, he had been 
very anxious to get as large an allot- 
ment as he could into his own hands, 
and that he had been for ever up towards 
the rectory, but perhaps not always on 
the allotment business. He was natu- 
rally a self-reliant, shrewd fellow, and 
felt that if he could put his hand on 
three or four acres of land, he could 
soon make himself independent of the 
farmers. He knew that at harvest-times, 
and whenever there was a pinch for good 
labourers, they would be glad enough to 
have him ; while at other times, with a 
few acres of his own, he would be his 
own master, and could do much better 

for himself. So he had put his name 
down first on the doctor's list, taken 
the largest lot he could get, and worked 
it so well, that his crops, amongst others, 
had been a sort of village-show last 
harvest-time. Many of the neighbouring 
allotments stood out in sad contrast to 
those of Harry and the more energetic 
of the peasantry, and lay by the side of 
these latter, only half worked and full of 
weeds, and the rent was never ready. It 
was worse than useless to let matters go 
on thus, and the question arose, what 
was to be done with the neglected lots. 
Harry, and all the men like him, applied 
at once for them; and their eagerness to 
get them had roused some natural jea- 
lousy amongst the farmers, who began 
to foresee that the new system might 
shortly leave them with none but the 
worst labourers. So the vestry had 
pressed on the doctor, as Dame Win- 
burn said, not to let any man have more 
than an acre, or an acre and a half ; and 
the well-meaning, easy-going, invalid old 
man couldn't make up his mind what 
to do. So here was May come again, 
and the neglected lots were still in the 
nominal occupation of the idlers. The 
doctor got no rent, and was annoyed at 
the partial failure of a scheme which he 
had not indeed originated, but for which 
he had taken much credit to himself. 
The negligent occupiers grumbled that 
they were not allowed a drawback for 
manure, and that no pigstyes were put 
up for them. " 'Twas allers understood 
so," they maintained, " and they'd never 
ha' took to the lots but for that." The 
good men grumbled that it would be too 
late now for them to do more than clean 
the lots of weeds this year. The farmers 
grumbled that it was always understood 
no man should have more than one lot. 
The poor rector had led his flock into a 
miry place with a vengeance. People 
who cannot ntake up their minds breed 
trouble in other places besides country 
villages. However quiet and out-of-the- 
way the place may be, there is always 
some quasi public topic which stands, to 
the rural Englishman, in the place of 
treaty, or budget, or reform-bill. So the 
great allotment question, for the time, 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 

was that which exercised the minds of 
the inhabitants of Englebourn ; and until 
lately no one had taken a keener interest 
in it than Harry Winburn. But that 
interest had now much abated, and so 
Harry looked through the cottage-door, 
instead of answering his mother. 

" "Tis my belief as you med amost hev 
it for the axin'," Dame Winburn began 
again, when she found that he would not 
re-open the subject himself. " The young 
missus said as much to me herself last 
night. Ah ! to be sure, things 'd go 
better if she had the guidin on 'em." 

" I'm not going after it any more, 
mother. We can keep the bits o' sticks 
here together without it while you be 
alive ; and if anything was to happen to 
you, I don't think I should stay in these 
parts. But it don't matter what becomes 
o' me ; I can earn a livelihood any- 

Dame Winburn paused a moment, 
before answering, to subdue her vexa- 
tion, and then said, " How can 'ee let 
hankerin' arter a lass take the heart out 
o thee s6 ? Hold up thy head, and act 
a bit measterful. The more thou makest 
o' thyself, the more like thou art to 

" Did you hear ought of her, mother, 
last night 1 ?" replied Harry, taking ad- 
vantage of this ungracious opening to 
speak of the subject which was upper- 
most in his mind. 

" I heered she wur going on well," 
said his mother. 

" No likelihood of her comin' home?" 

"Not as I could make out. Why, 

she hevn't been gone not four months. 

Now, do'ee pluck up a bit, Harry ; and 

be more like thyself." 

" Why, mother, I've not missed a 
day's work since Christmas ; so there 
ain't much to find fault with." 

" Nay, Harry, 'tisn't thy work. Thou 
wert always good at thy work, praise 
God. Thou'rt thy father's own son for 
that. But thou dostn't keep about like, 
and take thy place wi' the lave on 'em 
since Christmas. Thou look'st hagged 
at times, and folk '11 see it, and talk 
about thee afore long." 

" Let 'em talk. I mind their talk no 

more than last year's wind," said Harry 

" But thy old mother does," she said, 
looking at him with eyes full of pride 
and love ; and so Harry, who was a right 
good son, began to inquire what it was 
which' was specially weighing on his 
mother's mind, determined to do any- 
thing in reason to replace her on the 
little harmless social pinnacle from 
which she was wont to look down on all 
the other mothers and sons of the parish. 
He soon found out that her present 
grievance arose from his having neglected 
his place as ringer of the heavy bell in 
the village peal on the two preceding 
Sundays ; and, as this post was in some 
sort corresponding to stroke of the 
boat at Oxford, her anxiety was reason- 
able enough. So Harry promised to go 
to ringing in good time that morning, 
and then set about little odds and ends 
of jobs till it would be time to start. 
Dame Winburn went to her cooking 
and other household duties, which were 
pretty well got under when her son 
took his hat and started for the belfry. 
She stood at the door with a half-peeled 
potato in one hand, shading her eyes 
with the other, as she watched him 
striding along the raised footpath under 
the elms, when the sound of light foot- 
steps and pleasant voices coming up 
from the other direction made her turn 
round, and drop a curtsey as the rector's 
daughter and another y^oung lady stopped 
at her door. 

" Good morning, Betty," said the 
former; "here's a bright Sunday morning 
at last, isn't it ? " 

" 'Tis indeed, miss ; but where hev'ee 
been to ? " 

" Oh, we've only been for a little 
walk before school-time. This is my 
cousin, Betty. She hasn't been at 
Englebourn since she was quite a child ; 
so I've been taking her to the Hawk's 
Lynch to see our view." 

"And you can't think how I have 
enjoyed it," said her cousin ; " it is so 
still and beautiful." 

" I've heer'd say as there ain't no such 
a place for thretty mile round," said 
Betty proudly. " But do 'ee come in, 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


tho', and sit'ee down a bit," she added, 
bitstling inside her door, and beginning 
to rub down a chair with her apron ; 
" 'tis a smart step for gentlefolk to walk 
afore church." Betty's notions of the 
walking powers of gentlefolk were very 

"No, thank you, we must be getting 
on," said Miss Winter ; " but how lovely 
your flowers are. Look, Mary, did you 
ever see such double pansies? We've 
nothing like them at the rectory." 

" Do'ee take some," said Betty, emerg- 
ing again, and beginning to pluck a 
handful of her finest flowers ; " 'tis all 
our Harry's doing ; he's mazin partickler 
about seeds." 

" He seems to make everything thrive, 
Betty. There, that's plenty, thank you. 
We won't take many, for fear they should 
fade before church is over." 

" Oh, dont'ee be afeard, there's plenty 
more ; and you be as welcom as the 

Betty never said a truer word ; she 
was one of the real open-handed sort, 
who are found mostly amongst those 
who have the least to give. They or 
any one else were welcome to the best 
she had. 

So the young ladies took the flowers, 
and passed on towards the Sunday- 

The rector's daughter might have 
been a year or so older than her com- 
panion ; she looked more. Her position 
in the village had been one of much 
anxiety, and she was fast getting an old 
head on young shoulders. The other 
young lady was a slip of a girl just 
coming out ; in fact, this was the first 
visit which she had ever paid out of 
leading strings. She had lived in a 
happy home, where she had always been 
trusted and loved, and perhaps a thought 
too much petted. 

There are some natures which attract 
petting ; .you can't help doing your best 
to spoil them in this way, and it is satis- 
factory therefore to know (as the fact is) 
that they are just the ones which cannot 
be so spoilt. 

Miss Mary was one of these. Trust- 
ful, for she had never been tricked; 

fearless, for she had never been cowed ; 
pure and bright as the Englebourn brook 
at fifty yards from its parent spring in 
the chalk, for she had a pure and bright 
nature, and had come in contact as yet 
with nothing which could soil or cast a 
shadow ! What wonder that her life 
gave forth light and music as it glided 
on, and that every one who knew her 
was eager to have her with them, to 
warm themselves in the light and rejoice 
in the music. 

Besides all her other attractions, or in 
consequence of them for anything I 
know,^ she was one of the merriest 
young' women in the world, always 
ready to bubble over and break out 
into clear laughter on the slightest pro- 
vocation. And provocation had not 
been wanting during the last two days 
which she had spent with her cousin. 
As usual, she had brought sunshine 
with her, and the old doctor had half- 
forgotten his numerous complaints and 
grievances for the time. So the cloud, 
which generally hung over the house, 
had been partially lifted, and Mary, 
knowing and suspecting nothing of the 
dark side of life at Englebourn rectory, 
rallied her cousin on her gravity, and 
laughed till she cried at the queer 
ways and talk of the people about the 

As soon as they were out of hearing 
of Dame Winburn, Mary began 

"Well, Katie, I can't say that you 
have mended your case at all." 

" Surely you can't deny that there is 
a great deal of character in Betty's face?" 
said Miss Winter. 

" Oh, plenty of character : all your 
people, as soon as they begin to stiffen 
a little and get wrinkles, seem to be full 
of. character, and I enjoy it much more 
than beauty ; but we were talking about 
beauty, you know." 

" Betty's son is the handsomest young 
man in the parish," said Miss Winter ; 
" and I must say I don't think you 
could find a better-looking one any- 

" Then I can't have seen him." 

"Indeed you have; I pointed him 
out to you at the post-office yesterday. 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

Don't you remember? he was waiting 
for a letter." 

" Oh, yes ! now I remember. "Well, 
he was better than most. But the faces 
of your young people in general are not 
interesting I don't mean the children, 
but the young men and women and 
they are awkward and clownish in their 
manners, without the quaintness of the 
elder generation, who are the funniest 
old dears in the world." 

"They will all be quaint enough as 
they get older. You must remember 
the sort of life they lead. They get 
their notions very slowly, and they must 
have notions in their heads before they 
can show them on their faces." 

" Well, your Betty's son looked as if 
he had a notion of hanging himself 

"It's no laughing matter, Maiy. I 
hear he is desperately in love." 

"Poor fellow! that makes a differ- 
ence, of course. I hope he won't carry 
out his notion. Who is it, do you 
know ? Do tell me all about it." 

" Our gardener's daughter, I believe. 
Of course I never meddle with these 
matters, but one can't help hearing the 
servants' gossip. I think it likely to be 
true, for he was about OUT premises at 
all sorts of times until lately, and I 
never see him now that she is away." 

" Is she pretty ? " said Mary, who was 
getting interested. 

" Yes, she is our belle. In fact, they 
are the two beauties of the parish." 

" Fancy that cross-grained old Simon 
having a pretty daughter. Oh, Katie, 
look here, who is this figure of fun ? " 

The figure of fun was a middle-aged 
man of small stature, and very bandy- 
legged, dressed in a blue coat and brass 
buttons, and carrying a great bass-viol 
bigger than himself, in a rough baize 
cover. He came out of a footpath into 
the road just before them, and on seeing 
them touched his hat to Miss Winter, 
and then fidgeted along with his load, 
and jerked his head hi a deprecatory 
manner away from them as he walked 
on, with the sort of lopk and action 
which a favourite terrier uses when his 
master holds out a lighted cigar to his 

nose. He was the village tailor and 
constable, also the principal performer 
in the church-music which obtained in 
Englebourn. In the latter capacity he 
had of late come into collision with Miss 
Winter. For this was another of the 
questions which divided the parish 
the great church-music question. From 
time immemorial, at least ever since the 
gallery at the west end had been built, 
the village psalmody had been in the 
hands of the occupiers of that Protes- 
tant structure. In the middle of the 
front row sat the musicians, three in 
number, who played respectively a bass- 
viol, a fiddle, and a clarionet. On one 
side of them were two or three young 
women, who sang treble shrill, ear- 
piercing treble, with a strong 'nasal 
Berkshire drawl in it. On the other 
side of the musicians sat the blacksmith, 
the wheelwright, and other tradesmen 
of the place. Tradesman means in that 
part of the country what we mean by 
artizan, and these were naturally allied 
more with the labourers, and consorted 
with them. So far as church-going was 
concerned, they formed a sort of inde- 
pendent opposition, sitting in the gal- 
lery, instead of in the nave, where the 
farmers and the two or three principal 
shopkeepers the great landed and com- 
mercial interests regularly sat and slept, 
and where the two publicans occupied 
pews, but seldom made even the pre- 
tence of worshiping. 

The rest .of the gallery was filled by 
the able-bodied male peasantry. The 
old worn-out men generally sat below 
in the free seats ; the women also, and 
some few boys. But the hearts of these 
latter were in the gallery, a seat on the 
back benches of which was a sign that 
they had indued the toga virilis, and 
were thenceforth free from maternal and 
pastoral tutelage in the matter of church- 
going. The gallery thus constituted 
had gradually usurped the psalmody as 
their particular and special portion of 
the service : they left the clerk and the 
school children, aided by such of the 
aristocracy below as cared to join, to do 
the responses ; but, when singing time 
came, they reigned supreme. The slate 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


on which the Psalms were announced 
was hung out from before the centre of 
the gallery, and the clerk, leaving his 
place under the reading desk, marched 
up there to give them out. He took 
this method of preserving his consti- 
tutional connexion with the singing, 
knowing that otherwise he could not 
have maintained the rightful position of 
his office in this matter. So matters 
had stood until shortly before the time 
of our story. 

The present curate, however, backed 
by Miss Winter, had tried a reform. 
He was a quiet man, with a wife and 
several children, and small means. He 
had served in the diocese e,ver since he 
had been ordained, in a hum-drum sort 
of way, going where he was sent for, 
and performing his routine duties rea- 
sonably well, but without showing any 
great aptitude for his work. He had 
little interest, and had almost given up 
expecting promotion, which, he certainly 
had done nothing particular to merit. 
But there was one point on which he 
was always ready to go out of his way, 
and take a little trouble. He was a 
good musician, and had formed choirs 
at all his former curacies. 

Soon after his arrival, therefore, he, 
in concert with Miss Winter, had begun 
to train the children in church-music. 
A small organ, which had stood in a 
passage in the rectory for many years, 
had been repaired, and appeared first at 
the school room, and at length under the 
gallery of the church ; and it was an- 
nounced one week to the party in pos- 
session, that, on the next Sunday, the 
constituted authorities would take the 
church-music into their own hands. 
Then arose a strife, the end of which 
had nearly been to send the gallery off 
in a body, headed by the offended bass- 
viol, to the small red-brick little Bethel 
at the other end of the village. For- 
tunately the curate had too much good 
sense to drive matters to extremities, 
and so alienate the parish constable, and 
a large part of his flock, though he had 
not tact or energy enough to bring them 
round to his own views. So a compro- 
mise was come -to; and the curate's choir 

were allowed to chant the Psalms and 
Canticles, which had always been read 
before, while the gallery remained trium- 
phant masters of the regular Psalms. 

My readers will now understand why 
Miss Winter's salutation to the musical 
Constable was not so cordial as it was to 
the other villagers whom they had come 
across previously. 

Indeed, Miss Winter, though she ac- 
knowledged the Constable's salutation, 
did not seem inclined to encourage him 
to accompany them, and talk his mind 
out, although he was going the same 
way with them ; and, instead of draw- 
ing him out, as was her wont in such 
cases, went on talking herself to her 

The little man walked out in the 
road, evidently in trouble of mind. He 
did not like to drop behind or go ahead 
without some further remark from Miss 
Winter, and yet could not screw up his 
courage to the point of opening the 
conversation himself. ' So he ambled on 
alongside the footpath on which they 
were walking, showing his discomfort 
by a twist of his neck every few seconds 
(as though he were nodding at them 
with the side of his head) and perpetual 
shiftings of his bass viol, and hunching 
up of one shoulder. 

The conversation of the young ladies 
under these circumstances was of course 
forced; and Miss Mary, though infi- 
nitely delighted at the meeting, soon 
began to pity their involuntary com- 
panion. She was full of the sensitive 
instinct which the best sort of women 
have to such a marvellous extent, and 
which tells them at once and infallibly 
if any one in their company has even a 
creased rose-leaf next their moral skin. 

Before they had walked a hundred 
yards she was interceding for the rebel- 
lious Constable. 

" Katie," she said softly, in French, 
"do speak 'to him. The poor man is 
frightfully uncomfortable." 

" It serves him right," answered Miss 
Winter, in the same language; "you 
don't know how impertinent he was the 
other day to Mr. Walker. And he won't 
give way on the least point, and leads 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

the rest of the old singers, and makes 
them as stubborn as himself." 

" But do look how he is winking and 
jerking his head at you. You really 
mustn't be so cruel to him, Katie. I 
shall have to begin talking to him if 
you don't." 

Thus urged, Miss Winter opened the 
conversation by asking after his wife, 
and, when she had ascertained " that his 
missus wur pretty middlin," made some 
other common-place remark, and relapsed 
into silence. By the help of Mary, 
however, a sort of disjointed dialogue 
was kept up till they came to the gate 
which led up to the school, into which 
the children were trooping by twos and 
threes. Here the ladies turned in, and 
were going up the walk, towards the 
school door, when the Constable sum- 
moned up courage to speak on the 
matter which was troubling him, and, 
resting the bass viol carefully on his 
right foot, called out after them, 

" Oh, please marrn ! Miss Winter ! " 

" Well," she said quietly, turning 
round, " what do you wish to say 1 " 

"Wy, please marm, I hopes as you 
don't think I be any ways unked 'bout 
this here quire-singin as they calls it 
I'm sartin you knows as there aint 
amost nothing I wouldn't do to please 

" Well, you know how to do it very 
easily," she said when he paused. "I 
don't ask you even to give up your 
music and try to work with us, though 
I think you might have done that. I 
only ask you to use some psalms and 
tunes which are fit to be used in a 

"To be shure us ooL 'Taint we as 
wants no new-fangled tunes ; them as 
we sings be aal owld ones as ha' been 
used in our church ever since I can 
mind. But you only choose thaay as 
you likes out o' the book, and we be 
ready to kep to thaay." 

"I think Mr. Walker made a selec- 
tion for you some weeks ago," said Miss 
Winter; "did not he?" 

" 'Ees, but 'tis narra mossel o' use for 
we to try his 'goriunis and sich like. I 
hopes you wunt be offended wi' me, 

miss, for I be telling nought but truth." 
He spoke louder as they got nearer to the 
school door, and, as they were opening it, 
shouted his last shot after them, " 'Tis 
na good to try thaay tunes o' his'n, miss. 
When u praises God, us likes to praise 
un joyful." 

"There, you hear that, Mary," said 
Miss Winter. "You'll soon begin to 
see why I look grave. There never was 
such a hard parish to manage. Nobody 
will do what they ought. I never can 
get them to do anything. Perhaps we 
may manage to teach the children better, 
that's my only comfort." 

" But, Katie dear, what do the poor- 
things sing 1 Psalms, I hope." 

" Oh yes, but they choose all the odd 
ones on purpose, I believe. Which 
class will you take 1 " 

And so the young ladies settled to 
their teaching, and the children in her 
class all fell in love with Mary before 
church time. 

The bass viol proceeded to the church 
and did the usual rehearsals, and gos- 
sipped with the sexton, to whom he 
confided the fact that the young missus 
was terrible vexed. The bells soon 
began to ring, and Widow Winburn's 
heart was glad as she listened to the 
full peal, and thought to herself that it 
was her Harry who was making so 
much noise in the world, and speaking 
to all the neighbourhood. Then the 
peal ceased as church-time drew near, 
and the single bell began, and the con- 
gregation came flocking in from all sides. 
The farmers, letting then- wives and 
children enter, gathered round the chief 
porch and compared notes in a pon- 
derous manner on crops and markets. 
The labourers collected near the door by 
which the gallery was reached. All 
the men of the parish seemed to like 
standing about before church, though 
poor Walker, the curate, did not appear. 
He came up with the school children 
and the young ladies, and in due 
course the bell stopped and the ser- 
vice began. There was a very good con- 
gregation still at Englebourn ; the adult 
generation had been bred up in times 
when every decent person in the parish 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


"went to church, and the custom was 
still strong, notwithstanding the rector's 
bad example. He scarcely ever came 
to church himself in the mornings, 
though his wheel-chair might be seen 
going up and down on the gravel before 
his house or on the lawn on warm days ; 
and this was one of his daughter's 
greatest troubles. 

The little choir of children sang ad- 
mirably, led by the schoolmistress, and 
Miss Winter and the curate exchanged 
approving glances. They performed the 
liveliest chant in their collection, that 
the opposition might have no cause to 
complain of their want of joyfulness. 
And in turn Miss Wheeler was in hopes 
that out of deference to her the usual 
rule of selection in the gallery might 
have been modified. It was with no 
small annoyance, therefore, that, after 
the Litany was over and the tuning 
finished, she heard the clerk give out 
that they would praise God by singing 
part of the ninety-first Psalm. Mary, 
who was on the tiptoe of expectation as 
to what was coming, saw the curate give 
a slight shrug with his shoulders and 
lift of his eyebrows as he left the read- 
ing-desk, and in another minute it 
became a painful effort for her to keep 
from laughing as she slyly watched her 
cousin's face; while the gallery sang 
with vigour worthy of any cause or 

" On the old lion He shall go, 
The adder fell and long ; 
On the young lion tread also, 
With dragons stout and strong." 

The trebles took up the last line, and 

" With dragons stout and strong " 

and then the whole strength of the 
gallery chorused again, 

" With dra-^rons stout and strong," 

and the bass viol seemed to her to pro- 
long the notes and to gloat over them 
as he droned them out, looking tri- 
umphantly at the distant curate. Mary 
No. 7. VOL. ii. 

was thankful to kneel down to compose 
her face. The first trial was the severe 
one, and she got through the second 
psalm much better; and by the time 
Mr. Walker had plunged fairly into his 
sermon she was a model of propriety 
and sedateness again. But it was to be 
a Sunday of adventures. The sermon 
had scarcely begun when there was a 
stir down by the door at the west end, 
and people began to look round and 
whisper. Presently a man came softly 
up and said something to the clerk ; the 
clerk jumped up and whispered to 
the curate, who paused for a moment 
with a puzzled look, and, instead of 
finishing his sentence, said in a loud 
voice, " Farmer Grove's house is on 

The curate probably anticipated the 
effect of his words ; in a minute he was 
the only person left in the church 
except the clerk and one or two very 
infirm old folk. He shut up and 
pocketed his sermon, and followed his 

It proved luckily to be only farmer 
Grove's chimney and not bis house 
which was on fire. The farmhouse was 
only two fields from the village, and the 
congregation rushed across there, Harry 
Winburn and two or three of the most 
active young men and boys leading. 
As they entered the yard the flames 
were rushing out of the chimney, and any 
moment the thatch might take fire. 
Here was the real danger. A ladder 
had just been reared against the chim- 
ney, and, while a frightened farm-girl 
and a carter-boy held it at the bottom, 
a man was going up it carrying a bucket 
of water. It shook with his weight, 
and the top was slipping gradually ,along 
the face of the chimney, and in another 
moment would rest against nothing. 
Harry and his companions saw the dan- 
ger at a glance, and shouted to the man 
to stand still till they could get to the 
ladder. They rushed towards him with 
the rush which men. can only make 
under strong excitement ; but the fore- 
most of them caught a spoke with one 
hand, and, before he could steady it, the 
top slipped clear of the chimney, and 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

ladder, man, and bucket came heavily 
to the ground. 

Then came a scene of bewildering con- 
fusion, as women and children trooped 
into the yard" Who was it ] " " Was 
he dead ? " " The fire was catching the 
thatch." "The stables were on fire." 
"Who done it?" all sorts of cries, 
and all sorts of acts except the right 
ones. Fortunately, two or three of the 
men, with heads on their shoulders, soon 
organized a line for handing buckets ; 
the flue was stopped below, and Harry 
Winburn, standing nearly at the top of 
the ladder, which was now safely planted, 
was deluging the thatch round the chim- 
ney from the buckets handed up to him. 
In a few minutes he was able to pour 
water down the chimney itself, and soon 
afterwards the whole affair was at an 
end. The farmer's dinner was spoilt, 
but otherwise no damage had been done, 
except to the clothes of the foremost 
men ; and the only accident was that 
first fall from the ladder. 

The man had been carried out of the 
yard while the fire was still burning ; 
so that it was hardly known who it was. 
Now, in answer to their inquiries, it 
proved to be old Simon, the rector's 
gardener and head man, who had seen 
the fire, and sent the news to the church, 
while he himself went to the spot, with 
such result as we have seen. 

The surgeon had not yet seen him. 
Some declared he was dead ; others, that 
he was sitting up at home, and quite 
well Little by little the crowd dis- 
persed to Sunday's dinners ; and, when 
they met again before the afternoon's 
service, it was ascertained that Simon 
was certainly not dead, but all else was 
still nothing more than rumour. Public 
opinion was much divided, some holding 
that it would go hard with a man of his 
age and heft ; but the common belief 
seemed to be that he was of that sort 
" as'd take a deal o' killin," and that he 
would be none the worse for such a fall 
as that. 

The two young ladies had been 
much shocked at the accident, and 
had accompanied the hurdle on which 
old Simon was carried to his cot- 

tage door; after afternoon service they 
went roxind by the cottage to inquire. 
The two girls ^knocked at the door, 
which was opened by his wife, who 
dropped a curtsey and smoothed down 
her Sunday apron when she found who 
were her visitors. 

She seemed at first a little unwilling 
to let them in ; but Miss Winter pressed 
so kindly to see her husband, and Mary 
made such sympathising eyes at her, 
that the old woman gave in, and con- 
ducted her through the front room 
into that beyond, where the patient 

" I hope as you'll excuse it, miss, for 
I knows the place do smell terrible bad 
of baccer ; only my old man he said as 

" Oh, never mind, we don't care at 
all about the smell Poor Simon ! I'm 
sure if it does him any good, or soothes 
the pain, I shall be glad to buy him 
some tobacco myself." 

The old man was lying on the bed 
with his coat and boots off, and a 
worsted nightcap of his wife's knitting 
pulled on to his head. She had tried 
hard to get him to go to bed at once, 
and take some physic, and his present 
costume and position was the compro- 
mise. His back was turned to them as 
they entered, and he was evidently in 
pain, for he drew his breath heavily and 
with difficulty, and gave a sort of groan 
at every respiration. He did not seem 
to notice their entrance ; so his wife 
touched him on the shoulder, and said, 
" Simon, here's the young ladies come 
to see how you be." 

Simon turned himself round, and 
winced and groaned as he pulled off 
his nightcap in token of respect 

" We didn't like to go home without 
coming to see how you were, Simon. 
Has the doctor been 1 " . 

"Oh, yes, thank'ee, miss. He've a 
been and feel'd un all over, and listened 
at the chest on un," said his wife. 

" And what did he say 1 " 

"A zem'd to zay as there wur no 
bwones bruk ugh, ugh," put in Simon, 
who spoke his native tongue with a 
buzz, imported from farther west, " but 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


a couldn't zay wether or no there warn't 
som infarnal injury " 

" Etarnal, Simon, etarnal ! " inter- 
rupted his wife ; " how canst use such 
words afore the young ladies ? " 

" I tell'ee, wife, as 'twur infarnal 
ugh, ugh," retorted the gardener. 

" Internal injury 1 " suggested Miss 
Winter. "I'm very sorry to hear it." 

" Zummat inside o' me like, as Avur 
got out o' place," explained Simon; 
"and I thenks a must be near about 
the mark, for I feels mortal bad here 
when I tries to move ; " and he put his 
hand on his side. " Hows' m' ever, as 
there's no bwones bruk, I hopes to be 
about to-morrow mornin', please the 
Lord ugh, ugh ! " 

"You mustn't think of it, Simon," 
said Miss Winter. " You must be quite 
quiet for a week, at least, till you get 
rid of this pain." 

"So I tells un, Miss Winter," put 
in the wife. " You hear what the young 
missus says, Simon ? " 

" And wut's to happen Tiny 1 " said 
the contumacious Simon scornfully. 
"Her'll cast her calf, and me not by. 
Her's calving may be this minut. Tiny^s 
time wur up, miss, two days back, and 
her's never no gurt while arter her 

" She will do very well, I dare say," 
said Miss Winter. " One of the men 
can look after her." 

The notion of any one else attending 
Tiny in her interesting situation seemed 
to excite Simon beyond bearing, for he 
raised himself on one elbow, and was 
about to make a demonstration with his 
other hand, when the pain seized him 
again, and he sank back groaning. 

"There, you see, Simon, you can't 
move without pain. You must be quiet 
till you have seen the doctor again." 

" There's the red spider out along the 
south wall, ugh, ugh," persisted Simon, 
without seeming to hear her ; " and 
your new g'raniums a'most covered wi' 
blight. I wur a tacklin' one on 'em 
just afore you cum in." 

Following the direction indicated by 
his nod, the girls _ became aware of a 
plant by his bed-side, which he had 
been fumigating, for his pipe was lean- 
ing against the flower-pot in which it 

" He wouldn't lie still nohow, miss," 
explained his wife, "till I went and 
fetched un in a pipe and one o' thaay 
plants from the greenhouse." 

" It was very thoughtful of you, 
Simon," said Miss Winter ; " you 
know how much I prize these new 
plants : but we will manage them ; and 
you mustn't think of these things now. 
You have had a wonderful escape to-day 
for a man of your age. I hope we shall 
find that there is nothing much the 
matter with you after a few days, but 
you might have been killed, you know. 
You ought to be very thankful to God 
that you were not killed in that fall." 

"So I be, miss, werry thankful to 

un ugh, ugh; and if it plaase the 

Lord to spare my life till to-morrow 

mornin', ugh, ugh, we'll smoke them 

, cussed insects." 

This last retort of the incorrigible 
Simon on her cousin's attempt, as the 
rector's daughter, to improve the occa- 
sion, was too much for Miss Mary, and 
she slipped out of the room lest she 
should bring disgrace on herself by an 
explosion of laughter. She was joined 
by her cousin in another minute, and 
the two walked together towards the 

"I hope you were not faint, dear, 
with that close room, smelling of 
smoke ? " 

" Oh, dear no ; to tell you the truth, 
I was only afraid of laughing at your 
quaint old patient. What a rugged old 
dear it is. I hope he isn't much hurt." 

" I hope not, indeed ; for he is the 
most honest, faithful old servant in the 
world, but so obstinate. He never will 
go to church on Sunday mornings ; and, 
when I speak to him about it, he says 
papa doesn't go, which is very wrong 
and impertinent of him." 

To be continued. 



A . I HAVE been talking with our friend 

G , the Eoman Catholic convert, 

about the Excommunication. It is all in 
vain. He will not see that the nineteenth 
century is different from the thirteenth. 

B. In what respects do you think 
them different ? 

A. Looking at facts, not at theories 
not determining which is worst or which 
is best I should say that invisible 
terrors had a power for the one which 
they have not for the other. 

B. On what facts would you rest that 
opinion ? 

A. They are obvious enough, I should 

suppose. That G should be unable 

to see them causes me little surprise. 
Facts were always coloured for him by 
the fancy which looked at them. What- 
ever might be his prevailing notions at 
the time determined not his judgment 
of the events which he read of, or 
which were passing before him, but 
their very form and nature. 

B. I am afraid G is not a very 

exceptional observer. The siccum lumen 
is a rare gift. Let us ask for it, but 
not be sure that we have attained it. 
What facts in the thirteenth century 
were you thinking of ? 

A. I know that, if I used any general 
phrase, such as " the mediaeval period," 
or " the dark ages," you would take me 
to task ; so I tried to be definite. 

B. Let us be a little more definite 
still. You would not complain of me, 
would you, if I fixed on the first sixteen 
years of that century for a comparison 
with our own ? 

A. Certainly not I should have 
fancied that / was unfair in selecting 
the palmiest days of the Papacy, the 
glorious era of Innocent III., for the sup- 
port of my position. 

B. I willingly accept it. And, to 
make the trial fair, let the scene be 
laid in Italy. What say you of the 
relations between Innocent and Venice 
as illustrated by the story of the fourth 
Crusade ? 

A. No doubt the great Republic, 
having fixed its eyes on its old Greek 
enemy, showed a strange indifference to 
the thunders of the Vatican, and pre- 
ferred the spoils of Constantinople to 
those of Jerusalem. One must always make 
exceptions for commercial cupidity and 
ambition. There is, I confess, a link 
between the two ages. The same causes 
produce the same effects. England has 
inherited the Venetian scorn for the 

B. The sea I should have thought 
was not exactly the school for learning 
that scorn. The mystery of invisible 
force, its victory and its terrors, is sug- 
gested to the sailor and the trader, almost 
as strikingly as to the landsman. 

A. You are playing with the words 
" invisible force" and "invisible terrors." 
What have the winds and waves, what 
have men's triumphs over them, to do 
with Excommunication ? 

B. I might respond, What have 
cupidity and ambition to do with Excom- 
munication? Those also are invisible 
forces. You may hold that they enable 
Nations to despise the vague and unreal. 
I think they cause Nations to tremble 
before the vague and unreal On 
the other hand, whatever there is in 
the sailor or merchant which does not 
merely grasp at pelf and dominion; 
whatever shows him his subjection to 
eternal laws ; whatever makes him con- 
scious of human strength and weakness ; 
whatever teaches him to recognise a fel- 
lowship which seas and difference of cus- 
toms do not break ; this lifts him above 
the mere show of invisible authority by 
giving him an apprehension of its reality. 

A. The Merchant City, whatever may 
be the reason, was the one which could 
in that day defy the terrors of the 
Vatican, could compel the Latin Church 
to accept Constantinople as a boon from 
the very hands which she had pronounced 
accursed for touching it. What an 
opposite spectacle do King John and 
England present ! 

The Papal Excommunication. 


B. How, opposite 1 England in the 
thirteenth century trembled when graves 
were left unclosed, children unbaptized, 
couples unmarried. England in the 
nineteenth century could bear such spec- 
tacles no better. But if a majority of 
the Clergy yielded to the commands of 
him who issued the Interdict if John 
with his weight of merited unpopularity 
shook with good reason before the decree 
which permitted any subject whose 
coffers he had robbed, or whose wife he 
had defiled, to strike him dead ; was not 
Magna Charta won in defiance of the 
curse which was launched against those 
who touched the Pope's vassal 1 did not 
Stephen Langton teach the nobles to 
express their sacrilegious claims, and to 
word them so that serfs should after- 
wards be the better for them ? Was there 
no mockery of Excommunication in the 
thirteenth century 1 Did the mockery 
only come from men enlightened by 
commerce 1 Did it not come from those 
who felt that they were called by God 
to assert their rights as members of a 
Nation 1 Did not the priests who had 
received their nomination from Innocent, 
bear their full part in it ? 

A. I do not know that G could 

be much better pleased with your read- 
ing of history than with mine. Goneril 
leaves poor Lear his fifty knights in the 
good old armour ; Began will not even 
allow him these. 

B. I do not think the solemn lessons 
of the past must be expanded or con- 
tracted to suit the convenience of Pro- 
testant or Romanist commentators, to 
flatter the prejudices of the idolater of 
the Middle Ages or of the Victorian 
Age. We want these lessons for our 
warning and our encouragement. Woe 
to us if we twist 'them so that they shall 
be useless for either purpose ! If I 
think you conceded too much to your 
ultramontane friend in admitting that 
an Excommunication was sure to be 
effectual six centuries ago, I think you 
were unjust to him in saying that it 
must be ineffectual now. 

A. You do not mean that you think 
the present one will be effectual in 
Romagna, in Tuscany, in Piedmont ? 

B. I hope and trust not. But my 
trust and hope rest upon another ground 
than the notion that Italians or English- 
men of this day are made of different 
stuff from their forefathers. I want 
them both to believe that they are 
made of the same stuff. I can look 
for no good to one or the other if they 
lose that faith. 

A. And you honestly hold that men 
living amidst the noise of spinning-jen- 
nies and the endless movement of print- 
ing-presses can be affected by invisible 
terrors as those were who lived when 
women were thrown into the water to 
see whether their floating would con- 
vict them of witchcraft ? 

B. I should have thought the print- 
ing-press had brought us much more 
within the scope and sense of invisible 
agencies than the ordeal ever could have 
brought our ancestors. 

A. How? 

B. The woman is visible ; the water 
or hot iron is visible ; the sentence of 
death is visible. From Printing House 
Square there issues a power which goes 
through the length and breadth of the 
land. No one can tell whence it pro- 
ceeds or what it is. But it is felt in 
every limb of the English body politic ; 
whether it is an energy for health or for 
destruction, it is surely invisible, in- 
definable, mysterious. 

A. Again I must ask you, what has 
this to do with Excommunication ? 

B. Again I must answer you ; it 
has everything to do with Excom- 
munication. It is Excommunication 
which all people in all circles, little and 
great, dread. They fear the awful sen- 
tence which may go forth from their 
circle, or from the dictator of it, cutting 
them off from its privileges and its 
fellowship. The fear of public opinion, 
the fear of newspapers, is nothing else 
than the fear that from them should 
issue the decree of Excommunication. 
Your nineteenth century is not rid 
of this fear in the very least degree. 
No one of your English classes is free 
from it. Read any United States news- 
paper, and see whether you will escape 
from it by flying into that more ad- 


The Papal Excommunication. 

vanced state of civilization. De Toc- 
queville explained nearly thirty years 
ago that that was the very region in 
which social Excommunication was most 

A. But the Papal Excommunication is 
different in kind from this Social 
Excommunication. One belongs to the 
present only ; the other to the unknown 

. I do not admit a difference in 
kind. The Social Excommunication is 
altogether uncertain, indefinite. Those 
who utter it do not know exactly how 
much they intend by it. They admit 
degrees of exclusion, in some cases a 
possibility of restoration ; in some utter, 
irremediable banishment. How much 
is involved in that depends upon the 
nature and permanence of the society 

A. And, therefore, the Papacy, assum- 
ing the Church to be a permanent 
society existing in both worlds binding 
all ages, past, present, and future to- 
gether of necessity regards utter exclu- 
sion from its society as the loss of every 
blessing that men or nations can inherit. 
Such an exclusion past ages thought it 
possible for a man to pronounce ; what 
I maintained in my conversation with 

G was that our age does not hold it 

to be possible. Do you demur to that 
proposition 1 

B. I remember reading a pamphlet 
by a more eminent convert than your 

friend G , written whilst he was a 

clergyman in the English Church. In 
it he told those who were attacking him 
for his opinions, that he despised their 
threats. But he added 

" Di me terrent et Jupiter hostis." 

His minor gods were the twenty-four 
bishops of the English Church ; Jupiter 
was the Archbishop of Canterbury. He 
learnt to think that the cardinals more 
properly represented the former; that 
there was a thunderer in the Vatican 
more terrible than the thunderer of 
Lambeth. In his heart of hearts he 
confessed another power higher than 
any of these; he feared them because 
he identified them with that power, 

Whenever Nations in the old time con- 
fessed the might of the Papal Excommu- 
nication, it was because they identified 
the power which went forth in it with 
that higher Power ; whenever they re- 
sisted the Papal Excommunication it 
was because they could not identify one 
with the other. The Jupiter in the 
Vatican might be their enemy. But He 
who sat above the water-flood was not 
their enemy : would only show Himself 
their enemy, would only exclude them 
from his fellowship and from the fellow- 
ship of the good and true in all ages, if 
they shrunk from the duty which He 
called them to do ; would uphold them 
against all visible and invisible foes if 
they stood forth like brave, earnest, 
faithful men, and utterly defied and set 
at nought those who bade them be 
cowardly and untrue. My hope and 
belief is that Tuscany, Parma, Ro- 
magna, Piedmont, have learnt and are 
learning more and more deeply this 
lesson. It is not that they disbelieve in 
the invisible Power which their fathers 
believed. They have been disbelieving 
in invisible Power ; they have been wor- 
shipping visible Power. Now they are 
awakening to a sense of the invisible ; 
now they are conscious that the invisible 
is fighting for them against the visible ; 
now they are sure that the Jupiter whom 
they may trust as a friend, whom they 
must fear as an enemy, is a God of 
Eighteousness ; the Deliverer of man 
and nations out of the house of bondage ; 
always the enemy of the oppressor. To 
grasp this faith is to feel themselves a 
nation. To grasp this faith is to become 
one with the Italians of other times. 
They dare not tremble at the Excommu- 
nication of a visible ruler, because they 
do tremble at the Excommunication 
which may proceed from another Judge, 
and which may cut them off from fel- 
lowship with those that groaned and 
bled for righteousness and freedom in 
their own and every land. 

A. You believe that Italy, after all, 
has learnt something from intercourse 
with us Protestants and Englishmen. 

B. From us ? From the fine ladies and 
gentlemen who mock at their worship, 

TJie Fusilier s Dcg. 


or indulge in dilettante admiration of it 
at Eome 1 From our diplomatists at 
Florence ? From those who have bribed 
and corrupted them ? No; they have had 
a better teacher. In Austrian, or Papal, 
or Neapolitan prisons He has been 
educating them. There He has been 
nerving them not to fear Papal Excom- 
munication, but to be in great terror of 
His. Eather let its learn of those whom 
we might have helped, and have failed to 

help. Let them instruct us that there 
is an invisible Power which is more to 
be dreaded than the invisible power of 
the Press or of the Stock Exchange ! 
Let them remind us what an Excommu- 
nication that is which says to Nations, 
" They have cut themselves off from 
" truth and righteousness ! They have 
" sold themselves to Mammon ! Let 
" them alone ! " 



Go lift him gently from the wheels, 

And soothe his dying pain, 
For love and care e'en yet he feels, 

Though love and care be vain ; 
'Tis sad that, after all these years, 

Our comrade and our friend, 
The brave dog of the Fusiliers, 

Should meet with such an end. 

Up Alma's hill, among the vines, 

We laughed to see him trot, 
Then frisk along the silent lines, 

To chase the rolling shot : 
And, when the work waxed hard by day, 

And hard and cold by night ; 
When that November morning lay 

Upon us, like a blight, 

And eyes were strained, and ears were 

Against the muttering north, 
Till the grey mist took shape, and sent 

Grey scores of Eussians forth 
Beneath that slaughter wild and grim, 

Nor man nor dog would run ; 
He stood by us, and we by him, 

Till the great fight was done. 

And right throughout the snow and 

He faced both shot and shell ; 
Though unrelieved, he kept his post, 

And did his duty well. 

By death on death the time was stained, 

By want, disease, despair ; 
Like autumn leaves our army waned, 

But still the dog was there : 

He cheered us through those hours of 
gloom j 

We fed him in our dearth ; 
Through him the trench's living tomb 

Eang loud with reckless mirth : 
And thus, when peace returned once 

After the city's fall, 
That veteran home in pride we bore, 

And loved him, one and all. 

With ranks re-filled, our hearts were sick, 

And to old memories clung ; 
The grim ravines we left glared thick 

With death-stones of the young. 
Hands which had patted him lay chill, 

Voices which called were dumb, 
And footsteps that he watched for still 

Never again could come. 

Never again ; this world of woe 

Still hurries on so fast ; 
They come not back, 'tis he must go 

To join them in the past : 
There, with brave names and deeds en- 

Which Time may not forget, 
Young Fusiliers unborn shall find 

The legend of our pet. 


The Question of the Age Is it Peace ? 

"Whilst o'er fresh years, and other life 

Yet in God's mystic urn, 
The picture of the mighty strife 

Arises sad and stern 
Blood all in front, behind far shrines 

With women weeping low, 
For whom each lost one's fame but shines, 

As shines the moon on snow 

Marked by the medal, his of right, 

And by his kind keen face, 
Under that visionary light 

Poor Bob shall keep his place ; 
And never may our honoured Queen 

For love and service pay, 
Less brave, less patient, or more mean 

Than his we mourn to-day ! 



HAS Europe, at the point of civiliza- 
tion which it has reached, passed beyond 
the military stage of social progress, so 
that a disappearance of war is already 
before us in political prospect? This 
question raises, as will be seen, some 
collateral inquiries of practical and 
immediate moment ; but, apart from the 
temporary interest and light which 
they may afford, the investigation is, at 
bottom, one of a philosophical character. 
There is a matter of fact to be decided 
at the beginning. For an obvious, if 
not altogether conclusive, indication of 
the exorcism of the ancient combative 
spirit, and of the pacific structure and 
temper of modern civilization, would be 
a comparative infrequency in our own 
times of international quarrels and in- 
testine conflicts and disquietude. A 
great predominance of peaceful interests 
and tendencies might naturally be ex- 
pected to bear fruit and witness both in 
the foreign relations and in the internal 
condition of the states of Europe. And 
it is in fact asserted that there has been, 
beyond^all controversy, a steady decline 
in the frequency of war in each succes- 
sive century of modern history ; a signal 
example of which is, as it is alleged, 
afforded by the repose of Europe, and 
of this country in particular, 1 during the 

1 " That this barbarous pursuit is in the 
progress of society steadily declining, must 
be evident even to the most superficial 
reader of European history. If we compare 
one century with another we shall find that 
wars have been becoming less frequent ; and 
now so clearly is the movement marked, that 
until the late commencement of hostilities 
(with Russia) we had remained at peace for 
nearly forty years; a circumstance unparal- 

interval between 1815 and the com- 
mencement of the Russian war in 1853. 
With a view to enable the reader to 
judge for himself of the accuracy of this 
statement, and to collect such indications 
of the future as are possible from the 
observation of proximate antecedents, 
the following table has been prepared, 
exhibiting the wars and quarrels in 
which Great Britain has been involved 
from 1815 to the present time, as well 
as the wars and principal insurrections 
and revolutions which have disturbed 
the peace of the Continent within the 
same period. 

Wars, &c. of Great Wars, &c. of Continental 
Britain. States of Europe. 


War with Algiers. War between Spain 

Commencement of the and her revoltel 

Pindaree War. American colonies. 

British troops con- Army of occupation 

tinue to occupy in France. 

France. Revolutionary move- 
Ships equipped to as- ments in several 

sist the revolted Continental Stat 

colonies of Spain. 


War in India. War between Spain 

British troops con- and her American 

tinue to occupy colonies. 

France. Invasion of Monte 

Assistance to the re- Video by Portugal.; 

volted colonies of Insurrections in Spain. 


leled not only in the history of our own 
country, but also in the history of every other 
country which has been important enough to 
play a leading part in the history of the 
world. In the middle ages there was never a 
week without war. At the present moment 
war is deemed a rare and singular occur- 
rence." Buckle's History of Civilization, vol. L 
p. 173. 

The Question of the Age Is it Peace ? 


Wars, <fcc. of Great Wars, <kc. of Continental 

Britain. States of Europe. 


Revolutionary move- 
ments in Germany 
and Sweden. 
Army of occupation 

in France. 

War in India. War between Spain 

British troops con- and her American 

tinue in France. colonies. 

Assistance to the re- War in Turkey with 
volted colonies of the Wahabies. 
Spain ; Lord Coch- Disturbances at Con- 
rane takes command stantinople. 
of the navy of the Quarrel between Ba- 
patriots. varia and Baden. 


War in India at the War between Spain 
commencement of and her American 
the year. colonies. 

Assistance to the re- Serious disturbances 
volted colonies of hi Spain. 
Spain. Insurrections hi Tur- 


Lord Cochrane and a War between Spain 
body of British sea- and her American 
men capture Yaldi- colonies, 
via, and make an War between the 
expedition against Dutch and Sumatra. 
Lima. Revolutions in Spain 

and Portugal. 
Insurrections in Pied- 
mont and Naples. 
Revolt of Moldavia 

and Wallachia. 

Conflicts in India. War between Spain 

Policy of Great Britain and her American 
adverse to the Holy colonies. 
Alliance. War between Turkey 

Assistance to the re- and Persia ; also 
volted colonies of between Turkeyand 
Spain. Greece. 

Revolutionary move- 
ments in Spain and 

Austrian military ope- 
rations in Italy. . 

Assistance to the re- Turkey at war with 
volted colonies of Persia and Greece. 
Spain. Spain at war with her 

Quarrel with China. colonies. 

French army marches 

to the Pyrenees. 

Burmese War. War between Spain 

Imminent danger of and her colonies. 

war with France. War between Turkey 
Lord Byron's expedi- and Greece, 
tion to Greece. Invasion of Spain by 

_ u a French army. 

Russia makes war in 

Wars, &c. of Great Wars, <fcc. of Continental 
Britain. States of Europe. 


Burmese War. War between Turkey 

Ashantee War. and Greece. 

Lord Byron's expedi- War between Spain 
tion against Le- and the South Ame- 
panto. rican Republics. 

Recognition of the in- War between the 
dependence of the Dutch and Celebes 
revolted colonies of and Sumatra. 


Burmese War. War between Turkey 

Ashantee War. and Greece. 

Siege of Bhurtpore. Dutch War with J aya. 
Insurrections in Spain. 


Burmese War. War between Turkey 

Ashantee War. and Greece. 

War in India. War between Russia 

Expedition of British and Persia, 
fleet and troops to Spain prepares for war 
Portugal with Portugal ; in- 

surrections in both 


Rupture with Turkey. War between Russia 
Operations of British and Turkey. 

army hi Portugal. War between Turkey 

Dispute with Runjeet and Greece (as- 

Singh. sisted by the Great 

Civil War in Spain. 


War with Turkey. War between Russia 
British army in Por- and Turkey, 
tugal. Expedition of French 

troops to Greece. 
Civil War in Spain 

and Portugal. 
War between Naples 
and Tripoli. 

Dispute with China, War between Russia 

and Turkey. 
Russian invasion of 

Civil War in Portugal. 


Dispute with China. War between Holland 
and Belgium. 

War in Poland. 

Russian War hi the 

French War inAlgeria. 

Revolution in France. 

Civil War in Spain 
and Portugal. 

Insurrection hi Al- 

Convulsions hi Ger- 
many, Italy, an J 


The Question of the Age Is it Peace ? 

Wars, <kc. of Great 

Wars, <kc. of Continental 
States of Europe. 

War in India. 
Expedition to 

Dispute with China. 


War between Holland 
the and Belgium. 

Hostilities between 

France and Portugal. 
French expedition 

against Holland. 
War in Poland. 
Russian War in the 


French War inAlgeria. 
Eevolt of Meheraet 


Civil War in Portugal. 
Insurrections in 

France, Germany, 

and Italy. 


War with Holland. 

War between Holland 
and Belgium (as- 
sisted by Great Bri- 
tain and France). 

War between Turkey 
and Egypt. 

French War in Algeria. 

Russian War in the 

Insurrections in Italy ; 
Austrian troops oc- 
cupy Bologna. 

Civil War in Portugal. 


Dispute with France. 

Engli sh protestagainst 
Treaty of Constanti- 
nople between Rus- 
sia and Turkey. 

Dispute with the 

War between Turkey 
and Egypt. 

Cracow occupied by 
Russia and Austria. 

French War in Algeria. 

Russian War in the 

Civil War in Spain 
and Portugal. 

Insurrections in Ger- 
many and Italy. 


War in India. 


Hostilities with 

Affray with the Chi- 

Disturbances in Ca- 

Treaty for expulsion of 
Don Carlos and Don 

French War in Al- 

Russian War in the 

Civil War in Portugal. 

Occupation of Ancona 
by Austria. 


British troops arrive 

in Spain. 
Dispute with China. 

French War in Algeria 
Russian War in the 


Civil War in Spain. 
Insurrection in Alba- 

Wars, <Lc. of Great Wars, dec. of Continental 
Britain. States of Europe. 

Battle between Bri- Civil War in Spain. 

French War in Algeria. 
Russian War in the 


Revolt of Cracow, 
crushed by Russia 
and Austria. 

tish troops and the 

Rebellion in Canada. 

British merchants ex- 
pelled from Canton. 


War in Canada with Qivil War in Spain, 
rebels and Ame- French War in Algeria, 
rican sympathisers. Russian War in the 
British troops in Spain. Caucasus. 


War in India. War between France 

War in Canada. and Mexico. 

British troops in Spain. War of the French in 

Russian War in the 


Civil War in Spain. 

War with India. War between France 

War with China. and Mexico. 

British troopsin Spain. Revolt of Pacha of 


Civil War in Spain. 
French War in Algeria. 
Russian War in the 


War between Turkey 

Affghan War. 
War with Egypt. 
War with China. 
Expedition of British 

fleet to Naples. 
British troops in Spain. 
Disputes with France 

and with the United 



and Egypt. 

Civil War in Spain. 

French War in Al- 

Russian War in the 

War in India. 
War with China. 
Dispute with the Uni- 
ted States. 

War in India. 
Hostilities with the 

Boers at the Cape. 
War with China. 

War in India. 
Annexation of Natal 
to the Cape. 

Civil War in Spain. 

Civil War in part of 
the Turkish Empire. 

French War in Al- 

Russian War in the 


Civil War in Spain. 

War between Turkey 
and Persia. 

French War in Al- 

Russian War in the 


Otaheite occupied by 
the French. 

Insurrections in the 
Turkish Empire. 

Russian War in the 

French Wars in Al- 
geria, and Senegal 

The Question of the Age Is it Peace ? 


Wars, <tc. of Great Wars, <kc. of Continental 
Britain. States of Europe. 


Insurrections in India. War between France 
Quarrel with theSikhs. and Morocco. 
Arrest by the French Insurrection in Spain, 
of the English Con- Russian War in the 
sul at Tahite. Caucasus. 

French Wars in Al- 
geria, and Senegal. 

Sikh War. Insurrections in Italy. 

Attack on the pirates French War in AI- 

of Borneo. geria. 

Labuan occupied by Russian War in the 

the British. Caucasus. 

Dispute with the Uni- 
ted States. 


Sikh War. Civil War in Portugal. 

Engagement withNew Annexation of and in- 
ZeaJanders. surrection in Cracow. 

Expedition to the Agitation in Hungary. 
Tagus. French War in Al- 

Dissensions with geria. 
France in conse- Russian War in the 
quence of the Spa- Caucasus, 
nish marriages and Revolt of Sleswig and 
the affairs of Greece. Holstein (encou- 
Revolt of Boers at the raged by Prussia) 
Cape, from Denmark. 

Revolution in Switzer- 

and Turkey. 

War with Caffres and Civil War in Spain, 
Boers. Portugal, and Swit- 

War with China. zerland. 

Insurrections in India. Disturbances in Italy ; 
Austria occupies 

Insurrection inPoland. 
French War in Alge- 
ria, and with Cochin 
Russian War in the 


War in India. War between Den- 

Caffre War. mark and the Du- 

English Ambassador chies (aided by Prus- 

commanded to leave sia). 

Madrid. War between Austria 

and Sardinia. 
War in Hungary. 
War in the Duchy of 


Revolutions in France, 

Austria, Prussia, 

Italy, and several 

German States. 

Insurrections in Spain 

and Italy. 
Russian War in the 

French War in Algeria. 

Wars, <tc. of Great Wars,d-c. of Continental 
Britain. Stales of Europe. 


War in India. French occupy Ciyita 

Disturbances in Ca- Vecchia, and besiege 

nada. and storm Roma 

Admiral Parker enters War in Hungary. 
Besika Bay. War in the Duchies of 

Sleswig and Hol- 
Russian War in the 


French WarinAlgeria. 
Blockade of thePiraeus War in the Danish 

by the British fleet. Duchies. 
Caffre War. Insurrection in Ger- 

War in India. many and Italy. 

Destruction of Chinese Prussia on the Drink 
junks. of war with Austria 

Dispute with France ; concerning Hesse 
French Ambassador Cassel. 
recalled. Russian War in the 

Angry .despatch ad- Caucasus, 
dressed to Great Bri- French War in Al- 
tain by Russia. geria. 

French troops occupy 


Caffre War. Insurrection in Por- 

Insurrection of Hot- tugal. 

tentots. Coup die" tat of Louis 

Expedition to Ran- Napoleon, 
goon. French War in Al- 

Russian War in the 

French troops occupy 


Second Burmese War. French War in Al- 
Caffre War. geria. 

Russian War in the 

French troops in 

Preparations for War War between Russia 

with Russia. and Turkey. 

Insult to British sub- French War in Al- 
jects at Madrid. geria. 

French troops in 


War with Russia. Russia at War with 

Turkey,France, and 
Great Britain. 
Austrian army enters 

the Principalities. 
Insurrections in Italy 

and Spain. 

Rupture between Tur- 
key and Greece. 
French War in Al- 

French troops in 


The Question of the Age Is it Peace f 

Wars, <kc. of Great Wars,<tc. of Continental 
Britain. States of Europe. 


War with Russia Russia at War with 

Insurrection of Santals Turkey, France,, 
in Bengal. Sardinia, and Great 

Disturbances at the Britain. 
Cape. French War in Al- 


French troops in 

Peace with Russia in 
March, against the 
wishes of the British 

War with Persia. 

War with China. 

Rupture with Naples. 

Oude annexed. 


Russian War hi the 

Insurrections in Spain. 

Insurrectionary move- 
ments in Italy. 

Rupture betweenPrus- 
sia and Neufchatel. 

French troops in 


War with China. Russian War in the 

Indian Mutiny. Caucasus. 

War, in the early part French troop in 
of the year, with Rome. 

Insurrection at Sara- 


Serious differences Dispute between 
with France. France and Portu- 

War with the Sepoys. gal. 
War with China. French fleet des- 

Bombardment of Jed- patched to Lisbon, 
dah. Russian War in the 

French troops in 


Preparations by sea France and Sardinia 
and land against at war with Austria, 
invasion ; organiza- Revolts in Central 
: tion of Volunteer Italy. 

Rifle Corps. France and Spain at 

Rebel army in Nepaul. war with Cochin 
Hostilities with the China. 

Chinese. Russian War in the 

Island of San Juan Caucasus, 
occupied by Ameri- War between Spain 
can troops. and Morocco. 

French bombard Te- 

French troops in 


Expedition to China. War " between Spain 
Distrust of the designs and Morocco. 

of France. French expedition to 

Defensive preparations China, 
continue. French troops in Lom- 

bardy and Rome. 

Annexation of Savoy 

and Nice by France. 

Carlist rising in Spain. 

Insurrection in Sicily. 

Comparing these statistics with, ante- 
cedent periods of history, it does not 
appear that there is evidence of a gradual 
cessation of warfare and other serious 
violations of the peace of nations. The 
table does not exhibit one year from 
1815 to the present date in which our own 
country has not been either engaged in 
actual hostilities in some part of the world, 
or in some quarrel or proceeding likely to 
end in'war. Much less does it show a 
single year in which all Europe was at 
peace. Nor is the significance of recent 
wars to be estimated by reference solely 
to the amount of blood and treasure they 
have cost ; for the struggles of Russia 
with Turkey, the campaigns of the French 
in Algeria, Senegal and Lombardy, 
the conflicts of Great Britain in India 
and with China, and the aggressions of 
Spain upon Morocco, are of moment 
rather as prophetical than as historical 
facts. Besides, it should be remembered 
that the period from 1815 to 1854, 
which has been so erroneously referred 
to as giving proof of the peacefulness of 
the modern spirit, began at the termina- 
tion of the greatest war in the history of 
mankind ; one which by its very seve- 
rity necessitated a long forbearance from 
hostilities on a great scale, adding as it 
did,for example, more than600,000,000 
to the debt of Great Britain, and ex- 
hausting France of all her soldiers. 

Contrasting one age with another, 
Great Britain seems never to have been 
so free from war in this century as in 
Sir Eobert Walpole's tune. From the 
treaty of Utrecht in 1713 until 1739, 
the peace was only broken by occasional 
hostilities with Spain of no considerable 
importance, and Walpole's administra- 
tion is commonly regarded as crowned 
by almost unbroken peace. But the 
nineteenth bears in this respect a still less 
favourable comparison with the seven- 
teenth century. From the accession of 
James I. until the civil wars, England may 
be said to have enjoyed continued peace, 
for such operations as the expedition to 
Rochelle scarcely deserve a place in the 
history of war. Going farther back to the 
hundred years between the battle of Bos- 
worth and the commencement of the 

The Question of the Age 7s it Peace ? 


struggle with Spain in Elizabeth's time, 
considering too the bloodless and 
theatrical character of Henry the 
Eighth's campaigns, and the unimport- 
ance of the military annals of the two 
next reigns, we hardly exaggerate in 
saying that England was free from war 
from the union of the Eoses until the 
equipment of the Spanish Armada. 
Confining ourselves to English history, 
it would thus appear that the portion of 
the nineteenth century already elapsed 
has been less peaceful than the corre- 
sponding period of each of the two pre- 
ceding ones. And, indeed, it may be 
doubted whether any prior hundred 
and twenty years since the Conquest 
produced so many battles as were 
fought between 1740 and 1860. 

A writer, already referred to, remarks 
that, " in the middle ages, there was 
never a week without war." But if we 
are to reckon all the feuds of the barons 
and squires in comparing the frequency 
of mediaeval with modern hostilities, we 
must weight the scale of the latter with 
all the bloody revolutions, rebellions, 
and insurrections of modern times, and 
with greater justice in consequence of 
the tendency of these elements of dis- 
order, peculiar to our era, to produce 
international strife or war in a wider 

It is not an impertinent fact that from 
1273 until 1339 England remained 
throughout at peace with the Continent, 
if at least the years 1293 and 1297 be 
excepted ; in the former of which there 
was a collision between the French and 
English fleets, although their respective 
countries were not otherwise at war; 
and in the latter, Edward I. conducted 
an expedition to Flanders, which ended 
without a battle. It is true that in this 
period there were intermittent hostilities 
with Wales and Scotland. In a mili- 
tary sense the Welsh wars of England 
hardly deserve more notice than those of 
the Heptarchy. But there is a point of 
view from which the conflicts with 
Wales and Scotland, and those of the 
Heptarchy, alike possess political import- 
ance, and have a bearing upon the 
question now under consideration, be- 

cause of their analogy to a process which 
is still going on in Europe, and still 
giving rise to problems of which no 
peaceful solution has yet been found 
possible for the most part, knots, as 
it were, which must be cut with the 

The efforts of the English sovereigns 
in the middle ages for the annexation of 
Wales, and the reduction of Scotland to 
the position of a dependency, were the 
necessary antecedents of a political unity 
of Great Britain, corresponding with its 
natural or geographical unity, and con- 
ducive both to the internal peace of the 
island, and to its security from foreign 
aggression. It was absolutely indispen- 
sable for the civilization of England 
that the Heptarchy should be consoli- 
dated, and it was equally so that Ireland, 
Wales, and Scotland, should become 
integral parts of a united kingdom. It 
is obvious that the causes and chances 
of war would be infinitely multiplied 
were these three countries still separate 
and independent States, and that their 
union with their more powerful neigh- 
bour was requisite for the tranquillity 
and improvement of all, while it was pre- 
ceded by struggles which, so far from 
being peculiar to barbarian or the middle 
ages, find almost exact parallels in the 
latest annals of human progress. Nor 
is it unworthy of remark that Edward L, 
the ablest prince since the Conquest, 
applied himself with equal zeal and 
ambition to the reduction of Wales and 
Scotland, and to the establishment of 
law and order throughout England. In 
like manner the complex movement 
which in one word, fruitful of mistakes, 
we call civilization, while bearing over 
the globe the seeds of future peace, has 
entailed all the maritime, colonial, and 
commercial wars of modern Europe. 
The art of navigation discovered upon 
the ocean a new element for the practice 
of hostilities. It was certainly not in a 
barbarous age, or by barbarous weapons, 
that the Colonial Empire of Great 
Britain was established. And what but 
the commercial spirit of the nineteenth 
century has carried the cannon of Great- 
Britain into China ? Surely it was not 


The, Question of the Age Is it Peace ? 

the genius of barbarism that urged the 
American colonists to win their indepen- 
dence with the sword, nor can that well 
be called an uncivilized impulse which has 
flushed so high the encroaching pride of 
the United States at the present hour. 

We are thus driven to admit that we 
cannot with truth assert that a diminu- 
tion of war is a characteristic of our 
epoch ; nor that, if some ancient causes 
of quarrel have disappeared before the 
progress of civilization, it has imported 
no new germs of discord into the bosom 
of nations. Our survey of the past is 
far from warranting the prediction that 
all the ends which are for the ultimate 
benefit of mankind will be henceforward 
accomplished without bloodshed. Nor 
does it seem to entitle the warmest 
advocate of peace to stigmatize a martial 
spirit as barbarous in every form, and 
for whatever purpose it is animated. 
On the other hand, we may glean some 
reason for the general reflection, that it 
is often by war itself that future wars 
are made impossible or improbable, 
while peace is not unfrequently but the 
gathering time for hostile elements. 1 
And the particular observation in refer- 
ence to our own island lies upon the 
surface, that, since it has been by the im- 
provements of civilization brought into 
closer contact with the Continent, the 
chances of collision with Continental 
States are multiplied, and military insti- 
tutions and ideas seem to have arisen 
among us pari passu with increased 
proximity to our military neighbours. 
Again, the extension of our empire far 
beyond the confines of Europe, has given 
us enemies and wars in lands of which 
our mediaeval ancestors never heard, and 
which uncivilized men would have never 

These inferences are, however, drawn 

1 " Ah, we are far from Waterloo ! We are 
not now exhausted and ruined by twenty 
years of heroic war. We have taken advan- 
tage of the twenty years of peace which Provi- 
dence has given us, to recruit our forces, and 
stimulate our patriotism. We have an army 
of 600,000 men ; we can also fight at sea. We 
have built gigantic ships, cased with iron ; we 
have gun-boats ; in short, we have a powerful 
navy, which formerly we had not." " La 
Coalition." Pom, April 16, 1860. 

confessedly from partial premises, since 
we have up to this point regarded only 
one of the many sides which the modern 
world presents to the eye of the states- 
man and political philosopher, and espe- 
cially omitted one of the most con- 
spicuous and important phases of Euro- 
pean civilization. Industry and commerce 
have revolutionised occidental society, 
and established an economical alliance, 
as it were, between its members. One 
of the firmest bases of the feeling of 
nationality or fellow-citizenship may be 
traced at bottom, says an eminent 
traveller, to the " need and aid of each 
other in their daily life, 1 " felt by inha- 
bitants of the same country. Each dis- 
trict, each house, each man has a demand 
for what another district, house, or man 
supplies ; people are in habitual inter- 
course or contact of an amicable, or at 
least pacific character, and reciprocal 
obligations and conveniences make up 
the sum and business of existence. But 
this mutual interdependence now exists, 
as it is urged, between nation and nation, 
and all Christendom feels itself to be 
literally one commonwealth. And, 
besides the powerful interests altogether 
opposed to war, which have arisen in 
every state, men's minds are habitually 
swayed by commonplace and unromantic 
ideas ; and the presiding idea of modern 
communities, we are told, is the alto- 
gether unwarlike one of the acquisition 
of wealth. 

Even France is said to afford a con- 
spicuous example of this; and there 
are several reasons why that country 
may, with particular propriety, be re- 
ferred to in connexion with our present 
topic of inquiry. At this moment the 
peace of Europe depends mainly upon 
French policy. France, moreover, boasts, 
and with reason, of being, as regards the 
continent of Europe, a representative 
and missionary country in institutions 
and ideas. What is of importance here, 
moreover in France and over most of 
the Continent there are wanting some 
peculiar physical and historical con- 
ditions which contribute to make pacific 

1 Notes on the Social and Political State of 
Denmark, by Mr. S. Laing. 

The Question of the Age Is it Peace f 


interests and sentiments unquestionably 
predominant in Great Britain, the ab- 
sence of which peculiarities would render 
any estimate of the prospects of Europe, 
that might be founded upon a mere 
extension of the elements of our own 
social condition, altogether fallacious. 
On the other hand there are facts, which 
have grown up with the present gene- 
ration, " depriving former times of 
analogy with our own," and obliging 
us to dispute the logic which infers the 
character of future international relations 
from their past type. 

Eight years before his arguments were 
sanctioned by a Treaty of Commerce, 
Mr. Cobden drew public attention to 
new features of the industrial economy 
of the world, surely calculated, in his 
opinion, to render a military policy un- 
congenial to the great mass of the 
French people, and a rupture with 
Great Britain particularly improbable. 
Those arguments are of course now 
entitled to additional weight, but they 
could hardly be more forcibly expressed 
by Mr. Cobden himself at the present 
moment than they were in a remark- 
able pamphlet which he published the 
year before the Russian War, from which 
we reproduce the following passage : 

" I come to the really solid guarantee 
" which France has given for a desire to 
"preserve peace with England. As a 
" manufacturing country France stands 
" second only to England in the amount 
" of her productions and the value of 
" her exports ; but the most important 
" fact in its bearings on the question 
" before us is that she is more dependent 
" than England upon the importation of 
" the raw materials of her industry ; 
" and it is obvious how much this must 
" place her at the mercy of a Power 
" having the command over her at sea. 
" This dependence upon foreigners ex- 
" tends even to those right arms of peace, 
" as wdl as of war, coal and iron. 
" The coal imported into France in 
" 1792, the year before the war, amounted 
"to 80,000. tons only. In 1851, her 
" importation of coal and coke reached 
" the prodigious quantity of 2,841,900 
" tons. 

" In the article of iron we have 
" another illustration to the same effect. 
" In 1792 pig iron does not figure in 
" the French tariff. In 1851 the im- 
" portation of pig iron amounted to 
" 33,700 tons. The point to which I 
" wish to draw attention is that so 
" large a quantity of this prime neces- 
" sary of life of every industry is im- 
" ported from abroad ; and in propor- 
" tion as the quantity for which she is 
" thus dependent upon foreigners has 
" increased since 1792, in the same 
" ratio has France given a security to 
" keep the peace. 

" Whilst governments are preparing 
" for war, all the tendencies of the age 
" are in the opposite direction ; but 
" that which most loudly and con- 
" stantly thunders in the ears of em- 
' perors, kings, and parliaments, the 
' stern command, ' You shall not break 
' the peace, 5 is the multitude which in 
1 every country subsists upon the produce 
( of labour applied to materials brought 
1 from abroad. It is the gigantic growth 
" which this manufacturing system has 
' attained that deprives former times 
' of any analogy with our own, and is 
' fast depriving of all reality those 
' pedantic displays of diplomacy, and 
' those traditional demonstrations of 
' armed force, upon which peace or war 
' formerly depended." * 

We have quoted Mr. Cobden' s prin- 
cipal argument, that a war with a state 
possessing, as Great Britain does, a 
superior navy, would ruin the staple 
manufactures of France ; but he has 
also contended that a great military 
expenditure would entail burdens in- 
tolerable to the French people. If it 
be replied to this latter argument that 
Government loans produce no imme- 
diate or sensible pressure, and are rather 
popular measures, good authority is not 
wanting for the rejoinder that this 
State mine has been so freely worked 
by French financiers that it must be 
pretty nearly exhausted the public 
debt of France having grown from 
134, 184, 176, in 181 8, to 301,662, 148 

i " 1793 and 1853." By Richard Cobden, 
M.P. Ridgway. 


The Question of the Age Is it Peace ? 

in 1858. 2 To this it is added, that, 
while the Government has become yearly 
more embarrassed, the nation has become 
richer, more comfortable, and less ready 
for military life and pay ; and that the 
very investments which have been so 
largely made by all classes in the French 
funds have arrayed interests propor- 
tionately strong against any course of 
public action calculated to depreciate 
greatly the value of their securities. 
In short, we are told that the French 
Emperor is too poor, and that the French 
people are too rich, for war. 

These are considerations which deserve 
much attention ; but they are, it seems 
to us, insufficient to prove that France 
has passed out of the military into the 
industrial stage of national development, 
or that its economical condition is such 
as to render war very distasteful to the 
French nation, as a nation; especially 
as one which endures in time of peace, 
with the utmost cheerfulness, one of the 
heaviest inflictions of a great and pro- 
tracted Avar. For if we reflect upon the 
amount of wealth and industrial power 
withdrawn from production to sustain 
an army of 600,000 soldiers, besides an 
enormous fleet, we cannot but admit that 
this wonderful people bears, not only 
with constancy, but with pride, one of 
the chief economical evils of hostilities 
on a gigantic scale, and that this con- 
spicuous feature of French society suf- 
fices to characterise it as warlike and 
wasteful, rather than as prudent and 
pacific. The immense increase of the 
national debt of France in the last 
forty years, if it shows that the fund of 
loanable capital has been largely trenched 
on, shows also the facility with which 
this financial engine has been worked 
hitherto ; while the admitted augmenta- 
tion of the general wealth of the people 
appears to contain an implicit answer to 
any conjecture thai their capacity to lend 
has been nearly exhausted. Nor is it 
immaterial to observe, that the debt of 
France has been contracted mainly for 
military purposes, 2 that it has been 
considerably added to by the Emperor 

1 Economist, November 26, 1859. 

3 Tooke'a History of Prices, vL pp. 7 and 13. 

for actual war, and that his popularity 
appears to be now much greater than at 
his accession, in a large measure in con- 
sequence of the manner in which he has 
employed the loans he has raised. We 
have, indeed, only to recollect the amount 
of debt incurred by our own Govern- 
ment in the last war with France, and 
the opinion entertained by the highest 
authorities of its overwhelming magni- 
tude when it was but a seventh of the 
sum it afterwards reached, to see the 
fallacy of prophecies of peace based 
upon the supposition of the impossi- 
bility of a country in the condition of 
France plunging into a great contest, 
and emerging from it without ruin. 
Moscow and Waterloo have been fol- 
lowed by Sebastopol and Solferino ; and 
of disasters befalling his country from a 
foreign enemy the Frenchman is, we 
fear, inclined to repeat : 

"Merses profundo, pulchrior evenit: 
"Luctere, multa proruet integrum 
" Cum laude victorem, geretque 
" Prcelia conjugibus loquenda." 

Neither can we put unreserved confi- 
dence in the pledges of peace afforded 
by the trade and manufactures of France, 
on the value of which the following 
figures throw a light which has probably 
escaped Mr. Cobden's notice : 


(Expressed in millions sterling and tenths.) 

Mill, sterl. 

To England 11 2 

United States 73 

Belgium 50 

Sardinia 27 

Switzerland ...... 2 

Zollverein 19 

Turkey 10 


46 other countries and places 12 5 

(Expressed in millions sterling and tenths.) 

Mill, iterl. 

From England 53 

United States 77 

Belgium 53 

Sardinia 41 

Switzerland 14 

Zollverein 23 

Turkey . . . . . . . 17 

Russia 18 

46 other countries and places 13 5 

1 Tooke'a History of Prices, vL 652-3. ' 

The Question of the Age Is it Peace ? 


It will be seen from this table that 
the French exports to England are larger 
than to any other country, and the im- 
ports from England second only to those 
from America. When this state of facts 
is taken in connexion with the common 
sentiments of the French towards the 
English, on the one hand, and towards 
those nations, on the other, with which 
their trade is comparatively insignifi- 
cant as, for example, the Russians, 
Spaniards, and Italians we are led to 
suspect some great fallacy in a theory 
which presumes that national friend- 
ships and animosities, and international 
relations and differences, are adjusted 
mainly by reference to a sliding scale of 
exports and imports ; and we are warned 
to seek for some other indications and 
guarantees of a lasting alliance. 

Again, we may observe, that the 
European trade of France with Bel- 
gium ranks next in importance to 
that with England. Now, when it is 
suggested that France depends upon 
importation for those prime necessaries 
of both war and peace, iron and coal, 
and that this fact, above all others, 
affords security against French aggres- 
sion, the reminiscence can hardly fail to 
excite some inauspicious recollections. 
Belgium is almost traversed from west 
to east by beds of coal, from which, in 
1850, nearly six million tons were ex- 
tracted ; and in the same year the 
Belgian mines yielded 472,883 tons of 
iron. Give Belgium then to France, or 
rather let France take Belgium, and she 
does not want English coal and iron in 
time of war for her steam navy and 
ordnance. Is it towards commercial or 
warlike enterprise towards the annex- 
ation of the adjoining land of coal and 
iron, or peace with all her neighbours 
that the mind of the French is likely 
to be tempted by this consideration ? 
Which policy would best consort with 
some of their longest treasured aspira- 
tions, and some of their latest anticipa- 
tions ? Last year a pamphlet, entitled 
" L' Avenir de 1' Europe," passed through 
several editions in Paris. The future 
sketched for his country by the writer 
may be conjectured from the following 
No. 7. VOL. ii. 

passage : " De merne que nous decla- 
" rons la Hollande puissance germanique, 
" de meme aussi n'hesitons-nous pas a 
" regarder la Belgique comme franchise. 
" Elle vit par nous, et sans la pusiUani- 
" mite" du dernier roi des Fra^ais, 
" T assimilation serait complete depuis 
" 1830." Perhaps this aUusion to the 
year 1830 may derive illustration from 
the inspirations of a more celebrated 
politician. Among the works of Napo- 
leon III. there is a fragment, entitled 
" Peace or War," which expresses a very 
decided opinion upon the policy which 
became the Sovereign of France in 1830, 
and by implication upon the policy 
which becomes its Sovereign in 1860, or 
" whenever moral force is in its favour." 
It is in these terms: "All upright 
" men, all firm and just minds agree, 
" that after 1 830 only two courses were 
' open to France, a proud and lofty 
' one, the result of which might be war ; 
or a humble one, but which would 
' reward humility by granting to France 
' all the advantages which peace engen- 
'ders and brings forth. Our opinion 
' has always been, that in spite of all its 
' dangers, a grand and bold policy was 
' the only one which became our 
'country: and in 1830, when moral 
' force was in our favour, France might 
' easily have regained the rank which is 
" hers by right." 

It is not out of place, perhaps, to re- 
mark here that the hope of a meek and 
quiet, but remunerative, policy on the 
part of France rather than one grand 
and bold but perilous which Mr. Cob- 
den had some reason to form in 1853 
from the nature and extent of the mari- 
time commerce of France, has since lost 
its foundation by a change in the mari- 
time laws of war brought about by 
Napoleon III. To have crippled by 
hostilities with a superior naval power 
the sale of manufactures to the value of 
50,000,0002. and interrupted the im- 
portation of more than 40,000,000^. 
worth of the materials of French in- 
dustry, might well have seemed a risk 
too prodigious even for a sovereign with 
magnificent ideas to encounter. But 
not to speak of the elforts made by that 



The Question of the Age 7s it Peace ? 

Sovereign to place France without a 
superior on the seas there is, since the 
Eussian War and the Treaty of Paris, 
nothing which France imports from 
foreign shores which she could not con- 
tinue to receive during a war with Eng- 
land in neutral vessels. Even a blockade 
of the whole French coast would only 
send the cargoes round by the Scheldt 
and the Gulf of Genoa ; and to whatever 
extent it were really successful in ob- 
structing neutral trade, it would tend, 
on peace principles themselves, to make 
America, Sardinia, Spain, Russia, and 
Turkey the enemies of the blockading 
power, in the ratio of the intercept of 

It is by no means intended by these 
observations to attenuate the truism that 
the material interests of France would 
counsel a pacific policy on the part of 
its Government, but only to show that 
they do not present an insuperable 
obstacle to a warlike one, even against 
ourselves, and therefore do not relieve 
us of the barbarous onus of defensive 
preparations, or afford us much security 
that no temptation to achieve distinction 
by the sword could be strong enough to 
divert our powerful neighbours from the 
loom and the spade. 

In truth, it is no original discovery of 
our era that the commercial demands of 
France and England make them natural 
allies. It was seen with perfect clear- 
ness by that statesman who led them 
into a conflict during which, on each 
side of the Channel, infants grew to 
manhood, seldom hearing of an overture 
for peace, and personally unacquainted 
with any human world but one of per- 
petual war. 

When laying before Parliament the 
Treaty of Commerce of 1786, Mr. Pitt 
expressed a confident hope that the 
time was now come when those two 
countries which had hitherto acted as if 
intended for the destruction of each 
other would "justify the order of the 
" universe, and show that they were 
" better calculated for friendly inter- 
" course and mutual benevolence." 

That generous confidence was so soon 
and signally frustrated, not because of 

the blindness of both nations to the 
advantages of trade, but because men 
are sometimes disposed to exchange 
blows rather than benefits, and because 
they have passions, affections, and aspi- 
rations both higher and lower than 
the love of gold or goods. Still, in 
1860, the fiery element of Avar burns 
ardently in France, because the desire 
of wealth is not the one ruling thought 
which moulds the currents of the na- 
tional will. There, at least, the econo- 
mical impulse is not paramount over 
every other, and the social world does 
not take all its laws from the industrial ; 
of which in politics we find an example 
in the insignificance of the bourgeoisie, 
and, in common life, in the preference 
of the public taste for the ornamental 
rather than the useful 

There are thinkers who not only 
speculate upon the future of our own 
country from a purely English point of 
view, and take 'into account in their 
predictions of its destinies no forces 
save those visibly in action in ordinary 
times inside our island shores, but who 
measure the prospects of the whole hu- 
man race according to principles which 
would be valid only if every people had 
an English history, climate, geographical 
position, and physical and moral ^consti- 
tution. Yet, in fact, some of the proxi- 
mate dangers of war arise from the fact 
that England is the active centre of 
principles which, were all other countries 
similarly conditioned, would indeed be 
favourable to the maintenance of inter- 
national amity, but which, being domi- 
nant in Britain almost alone, come 
sometimes into violent collision with 
the elements of national life that are 
combined elsewhere. 

The mechanical and commercial con- 
ditions common to the modern civilizjd 
world have, in many respects, operated 
but little below the surface to modify 
diversities created by nature and descent, 
and betrayed even in the ordinary round 
of life. The likeness between the Anglo- 
Saxon and the Gaul of the nineteenth 
century lies on the outside ; but in sym- 
pathies and ideas, in heart and soul, in 
the inner moral life, they differ funda- 

The Question of the Age 7s it Peace ? 


mentally, and are beings representing 
two distinct phases of European civili- 

The seas kept the inhabitants of the 
British Islands for centuries aloof from 
most of those cruel wars which have 
left deep marks upon the institutions 
and temper of Continental Europe, and 
protected that energetic pursuit of ma- 
terial wealth and commercial pre-emi- 
nence to be expected from the first 
maritime position in the world, from 
customs at once free and aristocratic, 
and not least from a climate which de- 
mands the labour which it renders 
easy, while precluding foreign modes 
of existence and amusement. 

Twenty Continental summers, follow- 
ing the passing of the Reform Bill, 
would work a total revolution in the 
social economy of Britain. They would 
leave us a gayer and pleasanter, but 
a vainer and an idler people. They 
would slacken our steps, and quicken 
our eyes and tongues ; they would thin 
the city and crowd the parks, give a 
holiday air to English life, and improve 
manners and the art of . conversation 
amazingly. We should lose the cold 
and sedate reserve, the calm concentra- 
tion of the mind on serious business, 
and that earnest, patient, and practical 
character which our history, our Puritan 
ancestry, and our clouds, have formed 
for us. We should become less fond of 
domestic life, less engrossed with per- 
sonal and family interests, living more 
in the open air, and abandoning our- 
selves much to subjects and feelings in 
which passers-by could skare and sympa- 
thise. It would become more agreeable to 
spend than to get ; accumulation would 
pause ; people would love most to shine 
in society and at the table (fhdte, or to 
see splendid spectacles. In the end per- 
haps London might be so like Paris, we 
should have found so many of the ways 
of our lively neighbours worthy of our 
imitation, that we might enact a loi de 
partition and a conscription, elect an 
emperor, place an immense army under 
his command, talk about natural boun- 
daries, and gladly wear red ribbons in 
our button-holes. Our susceptibilities 

and sense of honour would have grown 
more refined ; the press and the courts 
of law might fail to arrange many of 
our differences in a becoming manner, 
and we might find it imperative to 
recur to the chivalrous arbitrament of 
the duel. 

This may perhaps appear a grotesquely 
exaggerated picture ; yet in America the 
force of climate and circumstance is seen 
to reproduce in a few generations the 
lineaments of the indigenous inhabitant 
in the face of the Saxon settler, and to 
excite an eager restlessness of tempera- 
ment wholly foreign to the ancestral 
type. And we have sketched but a few 
of the influences which tend in France 
to enervate the industrial spirit, and to 
give an undue force and direction to 
other impulses and motives of action. 
It is not only that the Frenchman 
naturally seeks the ideal more and the 
material less than the sober English- 
man, but that his country affords fewer 
avenues for advancement and enterprise 
in civil life, and scarcely one safe pacific 
theme of politics. Here the love of 
change and excitement, the public spirit 
of the citizen, and the romantic impulse 
of the man to transcend the narrow 
boundary of home, and to become an 
actor on a greater stage than the market 
and the mill, find vent and exercise, not 
only in the discussions of a free press, 
but in the possession of a world-wide 
empire, familiar to the imagination and 
yet full of the unknown a consideration 
the more operative on the side of peace, 
that the magnitude of this empire is felt 
to be largely due to the conquests 
of industry, not of arms, and that, by 
universal consent, the nation may 
have equals in war, but has no rival 
in the renown and blessings of wealth. 
The Frenchman, on the other hand, 
has but a soldier's tent abroad ; he 
has no sphere of cosmopolitan action 
save the campaign, nor anything beside 
his famous sword to assure him of a con- 
spicuous figure in Europe and a place 
in history. 

Nor let us suppose entirely spent 
the original forces of that triumphant 
Jacquerie, the Revolution of 1789, 

G 2 


The Question of the Age Is it Peace ? 

which, made a populace of serfs a people 
of freedmen, with the pride and spirit 
of citizens and the vanity and suspicions 
of parvenus. The despot said, "L'Etat, 
c'est moi;" the emancipated slave 
awoke to the intoxicating reflection, 
"L'Etat, c'est moi" Seldom, since, 
has an idea of the dignity and glory of 
the State been presented to the popular 
mind of France in any other shape than 
that of victory and military precedence. 

Mr. Buckle has been led far astray 
when he maintains that every great step 
in national progress, and every consi- 
derable increase of mental activity, must 
be at the expense of the warlike spirit ; 
nor could he have happened on a more 
unfortunate reference than to the "mili- 
tary predilections of Eussia" 1 for an 
illustration of his theory that a dislike 
of war is peculiar to a people whose in- 
tellect has received an extraordinary im- 
pulse from the advancement and general 
diffusion of knowledge and civilization. 
" It is clear," he says, " that Russia is a 
"warlike country, not because the inha- 
" bitants are immoral, but because they 
" are unintellectual." But, in fact, what 
is clear is, that Russia is at present not 
a warlike country. Its situation, climate, 
history, and institutions, have contri- 
buted to make its inhabitants, in the 
opinion of the best authorities, "the 
" most pacific people on the face of the 
" earth." 2 

Never in Moscow or St. Petersburgh 
would you hear the cry of War for ever ! 

1 Buckle's History of Civilisation, voL i. 
p. 178. 

* " Upon this point, I believe, no difference 
of opinion exists among all observers. Having 
lived for several years in a position which 
enabled me to mix much with the officers and 
men of the Russian army, such is my strong 
opinion of the Russian character. M. Hax- 
thausen mentions, as a point admitting of no 
doubt, 'the absence of all warlike tendency 
among the Russian people, and their excessive 
fear of the profession of a soldier.' The Rus- 
sian people have no pleasure in wearing arms ; 
even in their quarrels among themselves, which 
are rare, they hardly ever fight, and the duel, 
which now often takes place among the Russian 
officers, is contrary to the national manners, 
and is a custom imported from the West." 
Russia on the Slack Sea, by H. D. Seymour, 
p. 97. 

Vive la guerre ! uttered often unre- 
buked by the writer's side, as the army 
of Italy denied through the streets of 
Paris on the 14th of August, 1859. 1 
]S"ever during the Crimean War would 
you have seen a Russian manufacturer 
join the army as a volunteer, confessing 
with pride, "Moi, je n'aime pas la 
paix." 2 

There is, in truth, a natural relation- 
ship between the economic impulse, or 
the desire of a higher and better condi- 
tion, and those national sentiments to 
which, in France, an unfortunate course 
of circumstances has given a military 
direction. Patriotic pride and emulation 
are personal ambition purified and ex- 
alted by the alliance of some disinterested 
motives and affections. I^or can that 
feeling ordinarily fail to have an ele- 
vating influence on the character of a 
people which raises the aspirations of 
the multitude above selfish ends and 
material gain, and infuses some measure 
of enthusiasm and public spirit into the 
mostvulgarminds. Hence political econo- 
mists of the highest philosophic genius, 
such as Adam Smith and William Hum- 
boldt, have been far from reprobating a 
martial temper in a people as barbarous 
in every form and under all conditions. 
To France, xmhappily, we might .apply 
Lord Bacon's lamentation on the im- 
proper culture of the seeds of patriotic 
virtue : " But the misery is that the 
" most effectual means are applied to the 
"ends least to be desired." It is not 
only that the structure of the French 
polity is such that the ruling classes are 
those least fit to rule, and most liable to 
be swayed by passion and caprice, while 
there is no percolation through succes- 

1 This was among persons who were able to 
pay twenty francs a-piece for their seats. 

* The writer met returning from Solferino 
a French manufacturer, who, deserting his 
business for the campaign, had attached him- 
self to the army of Italy, in which he bore the 
rank of captain. He had served in like manner 
in the Crimea, at the siege of Rome, and in 
Algeria. This individual made the above 
declaration of his disrelish for peace ; yet, 
upon the truce, he quietly resumed his busi- 
ness until another war, which he anticipated 
the following spring, should relieve him of 
the inglorious occupation. 

The Question of the Age 7s it Peace ? 


sive grades, as in England, of the cooler 
views and habits of aristocratic and 
educated thought, but that a morbid 
intolerance of superiority has been left 
by the remembrance of the tyranny of 
the feudal nobility. As Mr. Mill has 
observed, "When a class, formerly 
" ascendant, has lost its ascendancy, the 
"prevailing sentiments frequently bear 
" the impress of an impatient dislike of 
" superiority." l Among the French 
democracy this hatred of superior 
eminence, being carried into every direc- 
tion of the popular thought, continually 
recurs in the form of an envious and 
hostile attitude towards Great Britain. 
A nation prone to jealousy is placed by 
the side of another, at the head of all 
peaceful enterprise. Whatever envy of 
English fortune might thus arise, is 
aggravated by traditions of defeat and 

Ungentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherished long. 

France has now no colonies save a few 
military stations. But a century ago 
it was otherwise, and her sons might 
have found themselves in their own 
country from Quebec to Pondicherry, 
and from the Strait of Dover to the 
Strait of Magellan. Why are they now 
bounded by the Bay of Biscay and the 
Gulf of Lyons ] How is it that Canada, 
Nova Scotia, Cape Breton and Prince 
Edward's Island, the Bahamas, Tobago, 
Grenada and Dominica, St. Lucia and 
St. Vincent, the Falkland 2 Isles, Malta, 
the Ionian Islands, the Mauritius, Eod- 
rique and the Seychelles, and India from 
the Kistna to Cape Comocin, once held or 
claimed by France, are now undisputed 
fragments of the British Empire ? It is a 
question which calls up the names of 
Chatham and his son, of Wolfe and 
Clive, of Nelson and Wellesley, and other 
memories retained with different emotions 
at each side of the Channel. And the 
answer might throw some light upon 
the source of the popularity at one side 
of the theory of natural boundaries, and 

1 Essay on Liberty. 

J The French were driven from the Falk- 
land Isles in 1766 by the Spaniards, who in 
1771 gave place to the British. 

the eagerness of our rivals to push their 
frontiers to the Scheldt, the Ehine, and 
the Alps, and to live in a larger world 
of their own. 1 

Let us not be too severe in our censure 
of an ambition, which we must at the 
same time manfully resist. Suppose 
the conditions of the two empires to be 
suddenly reversed. Suppose England 
to be rankling under a successful inva- 
sion, and a long occupation by a foreign 
army. Suppose the British flag to have 
been swept from every sea, and almost 
every distant settlement and ancient 
dependency transferred to the domain of 
France. Suppose at the same time that 
we felt or imagined our ability to restore 
the balance and resume our former place 
upon the globe ; and who shall say that, 
less sensitive and less combative as we 
are, we should not be eager to refer the 
issue to the trial of the stronger bat- 
talions once more ? Or who shall say 
that the ideas of glory throughout the 
civilized world are not such at this hour 
that the defeat of England by sea and 
land would add immensely to the pres- 
tige of France, to the personal status 
of all her citizens in the maxima civitas 
of nations, and make the meanest of 
them feel himself conspicuous in the 
eyes of every people from America to 
China? When, after such reflections, 
we imagine the many roads to national 
distinction upon which the French 
might occupy the foremost place, but to 
which they give little heed; when we 
find among them such an intense appre- 
ciation, and such prodigious sacrifices for 
military fame ; when the accumulation 
of capital among them, and the conse- 
quent growth of a pacific political power, 
is prevented by the fundamental condi- 
tions of their polity ; when the agrarian 
division leaves a numerous youth of the 
military age disposable for war, 2 it would 

1 Since the above passage was in the press 
a remarkable map has been published in Paris, 
entitled " L'Europe de 1760 a I860." designed 
to excite attention to the territorial and co- 
lonial losses of France in the last hundred 
years, and the immense aggrandizement of 
Great Britain at her expense. 

2 See Mr. Laing's Observations on the State 
of Europe. Second Series. Pp. 1048. 


The Question of the Age Is it Peace ? 

seem impossible to deny that the latent 
force of the warlike element in France is 
at all times prodigious ; that so far as it 
M latent it occupies the place of the 
deep general attachment to peace which 
is felt in England ; and that its actual 
ebullition in war depends partly upon 
the temper and life of a single indi- 
vidual, and partly on the occasions 
offered by the state of Europe, and the 
weakness of neighbouring powers. But 
these are the conditions of a military 
age and society. And thus it is that 
De Tocqueville has described his coun- 
trymen : " Apt for all things, but excel- 
" ling only in war ; adoring chance, 
" force, success, splendour, and noise more 
" than true glory ; more capable of 
" heroism than of virtue, of genius than 
" of good sense ; the most brilliant and 
"the most dangerous of the nations of 
" Europe ; and that best fitted to become 
"by turns an object of admiration, of 
"hatred, of pity, of terror, but never of 
" indifference." 

It is this people which has elected 
an absolute monarch, and that monarch 
is Napoleon III. But it is a most ob- 
vious inference from this fact alone, that 
a community, which, however advanced 
in some of the arts of civilization, has 
not outgrown the superintendence of 
despotic government, nor learned to 
govern itself or to trust itself with 
liberty, has not arrived at that stage of 
progress in which the claims of industry 
and peace can be steadily and consis- 
tently paramount in the councils of the 
state. The traditions of old, and still 
more the exigencies and ambitions of 
new imperial dynasties, are incompatible 
with the conditions of the greatest 
economical prosperity. Neither are the 
independence and robustness of thought 
educated by free industrial life favour- 
able to the permanence of an unlimited 
monarchy. Let us, indeed, ask if it be 
auspicious of the entry of Europe upon 
the industrial and pacific stage, and the 
millennium of merchants, that the trade 
of the world has hung since the truce of 
Villafranca upon the tokens of peace, 
few and far between, that have fallen 
from the lips of a military chief ? 

Yet that chief has deeply studied 
history, and gathered the lesson that 
monarchs must march at the head of 
the ideas of their age. 1 And there are 
indications that the vision of a holy 
alliance of the sovereigns of Europe for 
the maintenance of the peace and bro- 
therhood of nations rose before his 
youthful mind as one of such ideas. 
In 1832, he mused as follows : 2 

"We hear talk of eternal wars, of 

" interminable struggles, and yet it 

" would be an easy matter for the sove- 

" reigns of the world to consolidate an 

" everlasting peace. Let them consult 

' the mutual relations, the habits of 

' the nations among themselves ; let 

' them grant the nationality, the insti- 

' tutions which they demand, and they 

will have arrived at the secret of a true 
' political balance. Then will all nations 
' be brothers, and they will embrace 
' each other in the presence of tyranny 
' dethroned, of a world refreshed and 
' consolidated, and of a contented 
' humanity." 

But experience has not increased the 
confidence of the wise in princes or 
holy alliances. One has indeed but 
to glance at the conditions essential, 
in the mind of so subtle a politician as 
Napoleon III., to the peace of Europe, 
and their inevitable consequence, to rest 
assured that its present sovereigns could 
hardly grant them if they would, and 
would not concur to yield them if they 
could. For what are these conditions ? 
The nationality and the institutions 
which the nations demand. And what 
is to be the consequence ? Tyranny 

Such really are, if not the only requi- 
sites to " consolidate the world and 
content humanity," the indispensable 
supports of "a true political balance." 
And let the history of the last twelve 
years let the war in Hungary in 1849, 
and the war in Italy in 1859 let the 
dungeons of Naples, the .people of Vene- 
tia, the Romagna, Sicily, and Hungary 
in 1860 (should we not add Nice and 

1 Historical Fragments. Works of Napo- 
leon III. 

1 Political Reveries. Works of Napoleon III: 

The Question of the Age Is it Peace ? 


Savoy ?) say if the sovereigns of Europe 
are ready to concede without a struggle 
the nationality and the institutions for 
which the nations cry. 

Let us not, however, ungratefully for- 
get that the year 1860 opened with an 
assurance from the chief of the sovereigns 
of Europe, of his desire, " so far as de- 
pends on him, to re-establish peace and 
confidence." Yet this is but personal 
security , for our confidence. Should 
Napoleon III., in truth, be anxious and 
resolute for peace, yet a few years, and 
the firmness of the hand which controls 
an impetuous and warlike democracy 
must relax, and afterwards the floods of 
national passion may come and beat 
against a house of peace built upon the 
sand of an Emperor's words. Gibbon 
has remarked upon the instability of the 
happiness of the Roman Empire in the 
era of the Antonines, because " depend- 
ing on the character of a single man." 
The son and successor of Marcus Aure- 
lius was the brutal tyrant Commodus. 
Besides, we cannot forget that he who 
" dreamed not of the Empire and of 
" war," 1 in 1848, had, " at the end of 
four years," re-established the Empire ; 
that the third year of that Empire was 
the beginning of strife with Russia, and 
that its last was a year of unfinished 
war with Austria. Moreover, under the 
second Empire, all France is assuming 
the appearance of a camp in the centre 
of Europe, and this phenomenon be- 
comes more portentous if we take in 
connexion with it the Emperor's opinion 
respecting the precautions necessary to 
preserve the honour and assert the 
rightful claims of France. In 1843, he 
wrote : "At the present time it is not 
' sufficient for a nation to have a few 
' hundred cavaliers, or some thousand 
' mercenaries in order to uphold its rank 
' and support its independence ; it needs 
1 millions of armed men. . . . The ter- 
" rible example of Waterloo has not 

1 " Je ne suis pas un ambitieux qui re've 
1'Empire et la guerre. Si j'etais nomine" 
President je mettraia mon honneur a laisser au 
but de quatre ans a mon successeur le pou- 
voir affermi, la liberte intacte." Proclamation 
of Louis Napoleon, December 10, 1848. 

" taught us. . . . The problem to be 
" resolved is this to resist a coalition 
" France needs an immense army : nay 
"more, it needs a reserve of trained 
" men in case of a reverse." 

We must infer, either that in 1843 
Louis Napoleon foresaw that France 
was destined to pursue a policy which 
would, to a moral certainty, bring her 
into conflict with the other powers ; or 
that in his deliberate judgment no great 
European state is secure without mil- 
lions of disciplined soldiers, against a 
coalition of other states for its destruc- 
tion. If this be a true judgment, in 
what an age do we live ! But, at least, 
the armaments of France prove that its 
sovereign has not hesitated to employ 
its utmost resources for the purpose of 
enabling it to " resist a coalition ; " 
and a late despatch of Lord John 
Kussell supplies the fitting comment. 
' M. Thouvenel conceives that Sardinia 
' might be a member of a confederacy 
' arrayed against France. Now, on this 
' Her Majesty's Government would ob- 
' serve, that there never can be a con- 
' federacy organized against France, 
'unless it be for common defence 
' against aggressions on the part of 
' France." x Another natural reflection 
presents itself, that if Napoleon III. 
can solve "the problem," and make 
France powerful enough to defy a con- 
federacy, he has but to divide, in order 
to tyrannize over Europe. An apology 
which has been made for the great 
military, and more especially the great 
naval, preparations of France that they 
indicate no new or Napoleonian idea, 
but are simply the realization of plans 
conceived under a former government 
may be well founded. But then the 
question recurs are these preparations 
necessary, or are they not 1 Does France 
really need " millions of armed men," 
or does she not? If she does, what 
conclusions must we form respecting 
the character of the age, and the 
theory of the extinction of the mili- 
tary element in modern Europe ? Shall 

1 Further Correspondence relative to the 
Affairs of Italy, Part IV. No. 2. 


The Question of the Age Is it Peace ? 

we say that it is an economical, in- 
dustrious, and pacific age, or one of 
restlessness, danger, alarm and war *? 
On the other hand, if there is nothing 
in surrounding Europe to justify the 
armaments of France, what must we 
think of the deliberate schemes of the 
French Government and the probabilities 
of peace 1 There is, too, another con- 
sideration namely that, whatever be the 
reason and meaning of these facts, they 
are facts which must be accepted with 
their natural consequences. You cannot 
pile barrels of gunpowder round your 
neighbour's house without danger of a 
spark falling from your own chimney or 
his, or from the torch of some fool or 
incendiary. In the presence then of 
these phenomena, indicating what they 
do of the reciprocal relations and atti- 
tude of the most civilized states, can we 
say that the political aspect of the world 
and the condition of international mo- 
rality would be unaptly described in the 
language applied to them two hundred 
years ago by Hobbes : "Every nation 
" has a right to do what it pleases to 
" other commonwealths. And withal 
" they live in the condition of perpetual 
"war, with their frontiers armed and 
" cannons planted against their neigh- 
" hours round about.'"? 

There are, notwithstanding, sanguine 
politicians, who look upon these things 
as transitional and well-nigh past, who 
view the darkest prospects of the 
hour as the passing clouds of the morn- 

ing of peace, and the immediate heralds 
of that day when nation shall not lift 
up sword against nation, neither shall 
they learn war any more. Of the 
advent of that period not one doubt is 
meant to be suggested here. But the 
measures of time which history and 
philosophy put into our hands are dif- 
ferent from those which the statesman 
must employ. An age is but as a day 
to the eye to which the condition of the 
globe when it was first trodden by savage 
men is present. But those whose vision 
is confined to the fleeting moments so 
important to themselves, which cover 
their own lifetime and that of their 
children, will deem the reign of peace 
far distant if removed to, a third genera- 

What, then, is the interpretation of 
the signs of the times on which a prac- 
tical people should fix its scrutiny ? 
To this question, the question of the age 
whether it means peace or war it is 
believed that the preceding pages supply 
a partial answer, which we have not 
here room to make more full and defi- 
nite ; or it could be shown that the 
form and spirit of the age, the imper- 
fection of the mechanism for the adjust- 
ment of international rights, the mal- 
organization of continental polities, the 
impending repartition of Europe, and 
the aspect of remoter portions of the 
globe compose a political horizon charged 
with the elements of war. 


JUNE, 1860. 




WHY were the people of England so 
earnest on behalf of the Reform Bill of 
1831 ? Why are the people of England 
so indifferent about the Reform Bill 
of 1860 1 We have all asked ourselves 
these questions. I doubt whether party 
politicians will ever find the answers to 
them. I am sure that those who are 
not party politicians are quite as much 
interested in the answers to them as 
they can be. 

So far as those whom we commonly 
describe as the Working Classes are 
concerned, an a priori speculator might 
have looked for exactly the opposite 
result to that which he witnesses. 
Those classes were not specially con- 
sidered in Lord Grey's Bill ; the classes 
with which they had least sympathy, 
the great producers and the shop- 
keepers, were specially considered in it. 
They had been taught, by most of the 
speakers and writers who had influence 
over them, to suspect the Whigs ; the 
Whigs were the authors of the measure. 
Nevertheless, the cry for the bill, and 
the whole bill, went through the length 
and breadth of the land. It arose from 
the lowest courts and alleys ; the wisest 
confessed it to be indeed a national 
cry ; the bravest, with the Duke of Wel- 
lington at their head, bowed before it. 

The Bill of 1860 does contemplate 
these working classes ; appears designed 
especially for them. The popular agi- 

No. 8. VOL. ii. 

tator tells them that, if they gain so 
much, all else they want will follow. 
He speaks with an ability and an elo- 
quence which few of his predecessors 
in the same line possessed. He addresses 
himself directly to the material interests 
of these classes. The aristocrats, he says, 
are taxing them cruelly ; if they can 
procure a great numerical addition to the 
constituencies, much of the taxation will 
be unnecessary, much will be turned in 
another direction. What can move them 
if these arguments do not 1 

The facts say, There must be some 
arguments which move the hearts of 
men more than these. And ct priori 
reasoning must bow to facts in a 
practical country like England. 

It may sound very absurd, to say that 
calculations of profit and loss do not 
affect people who are poor, and may 
starve, as much as appeals to their con- 
science and their sympathy. Young 
gentlemen who know the world ar.e 
struck at once with the folly of such an 
assertion. But I suspect that these young 
gentlemen fall into the fallacy of con- 
founding the stomach with reasonings 
about the stomach, which address them- 
selves not to it, but to the brain. The 
bakers' shops had a voice for the hun- 
gry crowds who poured out of St. 
Antoine, which might drown discourses 
about liberty and the rights of man. 
But discourses about liberty and the 


The Sufrage. 

rights of man were more effective upon 
those crowds, than arguments respect- 
ing the price of the luxuries or even the 
necessaries of life. In times of revolu- 
tion, as well as in times of quiet, the 
same lesson is forced upon us. Work- 
ing men yes, even if they are also 
suffering men demand that you should 
do homage to something in them which 
is not material, which is not selfish. 
"When they claim to be- adopted as 
part of the nation, not to be regarded as 
standing outside of it, phantoms of 
pecuniary advantage or pecuniary ex- 
emption may float before their eyes. 
You may possibly be able to persuade 
them that those phantoms are all that 
they are pursuing, can pursue, ought to 
pursue. But before you bring theni to 
that conviction, you will have quite 
established another in their minds. You 
will have left them in no doubt that 
those are the objects you are following 
after ; .that you identify the privilege of 
belonging to a nation of being a living 
and governing part of it with the 
outward good things which it procures 
for you. And they will despise and 
hate you for that baseness ; will despise 
and hate you the more because you 
give them credit for sharing in it. 

Any one who recollects the kind of 
feeling which was at work in 1831 and 
1832 will quickly apply this remark to 
that time. The indignation in the 
people, whether justified or not, was a 
moral indignation. It was an indignation 
against the upper classes as caring for 
their material interests more than for 
the well-being of the nation. The cry 
was, " The purse is supreme. We are 
"bought and sold. These peers who 
"call themselves noble, and talk about 
" a glorious ancestry, care only for their 
" acres. These clergy who tell us about 
"a Kingdom of Heaven, care only for 
" their livings on earth. We must have 
" all that set right. Three cheers for the 
"bill" I am not saying that there 
was not great unfairness in these cries. 
I am saying only that they had more 
weight with the body of the people, 
more influence in securing their votes 
for the proposed reform, than any 

reasonings about the effect of admitting 
by a 501. franchise in the counties or 
a 10Z. franchise in the towns. The 
scandal and the shame of confounding 
high, national, divine interests, with 
low, class, material interests, struck the 
conscience of men who could not 
understand nice questions about re- 
presentation. And that conscience, far 
more than all the skill of those who 
framed the bill, or the ingenuity of 
those "who defended it, or the eagerness 
of those who profited by it, overcame 
an opposition that was formidable not 
for the wealth and traditional influence 
only, but for the character, the wisdom, 
and the earnestness of those who took 
part in it. 

I do not allude to the formal opposi- 
tion in either House. I allude to those 
who were certain never to be members of 
Parliament ; to some of the most mature 
thinkers of that day. A few of my 
readers will have heard themselves, all 
of us know by report, the eloquent 
discourses which Mr. Wordsworth was 
wont to pour forth against the BilL 
Yet he was not ashamed of his early 
revolutionary fervour ; his later Toryism 
was associated with profound reverence 
for the lower classes, with indepen- 
dence of aristocratical patronage. Mr. 
Hallam, born and bred amongst Whigs 
living amongst them expressed, at 
a time when the weight of his testi- 
mony as a constitutional historian would 
have been most valuable to his friends, 
what must have been a most serious, be- 
cause a most reluctant, disapprobation of 
their measure. Can it be doubted that 
both these illustrious men, starting from 
such opposite points, with characters 
and education so dissimilar, agreed in 
their conclusion, because both equally 
dreaded a sacrifice of moral and intel- 
lectual to material interests, from the 
predominance of the class which the 
bill proposed to enfranchise ? On the 
other hand, what endeared it to the 
younger men of the literary and pro- 
fessional class who reverenced the au- 
thority of these guides, and yet could 
not stoop to it, but the experience 
which they had, or thought they had, of 

The Suffrage. 


the terrible weight of those same mate- 
rial interests in the system which the 
bill disturbed 1 In many a house, where 
a grave and righteous father, or uncle, 
somewhere on the wrong side of sixty, 
met a son or nephew just, fresh from 
college, with a mind which he had 
helped to form, and which reflected his 
own, did a dialogue take place, not much 
varying in substance from this : 

Senex. I wish you could tell me why 
you have fallen in love with this new 
constitution which Lord Grey is so good 
as to devise for us. 

Juvenis. You remember Johnson, 
sir; he passed part of one long vacation 
with me at your house. 

Senex. Of course, I remember him ; 
a very clever, sparkling fellow. Absurdly 
liberal; but with no harm in him. I 
shall be glad to see him again. What 
has that to do with my question ? 

Juvenis. He comes in for the borough 
of Y on Lord P's interest. 

Senex. On Lord P's interest ! one of 
the most conspicuous names in Schedule 
A. Dead against the bill ! 

Juvenis. Just so. Johnson, knowing 
all the arguments for it, and heartily 
sympathising in them, can, of course, 
oppose it much more effectually than 
those who have only learnt by heart the 
common-places on the other side. 

Senex. Humph ' Some who think as 
I do might utter words of triumph 
about the easy virtue of Eadicals. I do 
not. I am as sorry for your friend as 
you can be. 

Juvenis. Well, sir ! And must I not 
hate a system with perfect hatred which 
reduces a man one with whom I have 
exchanged thoughts and hopes, one whom 
I care for, in all respects a better as well 
as a wiser man than I am into a 
creature whom I am obliged to despise ? 

Senex. Be true to thyself, my boy, 
and then thou wilt not be false to any 
man, or to thy country, though thou 
mayst make thousands of mistakes. 

Juvenis. You have taught me not to 
lie, sir; I owe therefore to you my hatred 
of this serpent which is tempting us all 
to lie. I do not understand, let me say 
it with all deference, your tolerance of 

feudalism. Of all persons I have ever 
known, you abhor money- worship most, 
and have kept your soul freest from it. 
How can you endure that which per- 
suades the wise and the unwise that 
their tongues, their hearts, their man- 
hood, are all articles for sale 1 

Senex. t My respect for aristocracy is 
increased, not diminished, by the horror 
I have of these proceedings ; by my cer- 
tainty that they will bring a curse upon 
those who commit them, and upon the 
land. If an aristocracy forgets that it is a 
witness for intellect and manhood, and 
against the power of the purse, 7 am 
not to forget it. I am not to endue 
with power those who believe only in 
the purse, who think that all institutions 
which connect us with the past, which 
tell us that we are a nation of men, 
are hindrances to its triumphs, and 
therefore should be swept away. The 
new Eeform Bill means that for me; 
therefore, I protest against it. 

Juvenis. It seems to me, sir, that the 
incubus which is pressing upon us 
must be got rid of somehow, and that 
we must not shrink from any efforts, 
shun any allies, fear to face any conse- 
quences, if we can but throw it oft 

I wish to illustrate by this dialogue 
the common feeling which was at work 
in the most earnest men who took oppo- 
site sides in this great controversy. I 
wish to show that that common feeling 
was a dread lest the nation should perish 
through the idolatry of material interests 
by one or other of its classes. This 
feeling was stronger than all questions 
of detail ; strong enough to make those 
who accepted the bill endure many 
details in it which they disliked those 
who rejected it fear many of its gifts 
which they might have been glad to 
receive. And this feeling, it seems to me, 
won the triumph. The aristocracy had 
committed the sin with which they were 
charged. The judgment for it could not 
be delayed. It came in a form which 
averted the doom of which many sup- 
posed it was the trumpet. 

The wisdom of the aged could not 
prevail against the righteous decrees of 

H 2 


The Suffrage. 

Heaven. It did make itself good against 
many of the dreams and hopes of the 
young men, in which heavenly and 
earthly elements were mixed. Their turn 
for murmuring against the ten-pound 
householders of the town was to 
come. The complaints were repeated 
loudly repeated by the working men, 
who had joined to procure for the 
middle class its new position. In the 
case, however, of the professional class, 
they produced what was called a " Con- 
servative reaction ;" in the other case they 
issued in a fiercer radicalism. The one 
talked of the old constitution, dreamt of 
times when men cared less for money 
than they do now, detected some truth 
in what they had been used to describe 
as platitudes respecting the wisdom of 
our ancestors ; the other cried for 
manhood-suffrage and the points of the 
charter. They were apparently, there- 
fore, moving farther and farther from 
each other ; the first regretting that the 
aristocracy had conceded so much, the 
other saying that to them they had con- 
ceded nothing. Meantime a victory was 
won by that class of which both were 
jealous ; a victory which curiously illus- 
trates the subject I am considering. 
The Conservative party rose to power 
supported by the cry that .the new class 
to which the Eeform BiH had given so 
much influence would sacrifice all old 
institutions to mere immediate material 
interests if they were not withstood. 
The Conservative party bound itself to 
the preservation of an immediate ma- 
terial interest. No doubt many of its 
members looked upon the Corn Laws in 
a higher light than this ; no doubt they 
regarded them as sacred ancient institu- 
tions. But the conscience of the country 
could not recognise them under this 
name. It pronounced them a selfish 
monopoly contrived for the good of a 
class ; it passed sentence upon them. 
Sir Robert Peel, noi in the character of 
a representative of middle-class feelings 
however he may deserve on some 
grounds to be so described but as a 
practical statesman, confessed a power 
which was too strong for him, and sacri- 
ficed to it his party and his reputation. 

Let this fact be remembered by the 
champions of that cause. Let them 
laugh as they like at a national con- 
science ; but let them know that their 
arguments, their eloquence, their con- 
spiracy would have been utterly inef- 
fectual if they had not enlisted it on 
their side. 

Then came the year 1848. The 
throne which had relied most upon the 
support of the middle class, the throne 
which had aimed most steadily and ex- 
clusively at the promotion of material 
interests, the throne which enlightened 
doctrinaires had supported mainly be- 
cause they looked upon it as the one 
barrier against absolutism and demo- 
cracy, fell down as if it had been a house 
of cards; and most of the thrones in 
Europe shook or fell as if they were 
built of cards also. What did this 
earthquake mean? There were those 
who interpreted it thus : " Hitherto/' 
they said, " democracy has been invad- 
" ing only institutions monarchies, aris- 
"tocracies, churches. Now it is ap- 
" proaching the heart of society. Now 
' it is threatening property. Now then 
' is the tune for ah 1 who have property, 
'however little they may care for 
' any of these institutions, to arm them- 
selves. Upper classes, middle classes, 
' rally in this name. With this watch- 
' word go forth against your enemies." 
There were others who looked at this re- 
volution as having a different and some- 
what deeper significance. Beneath the 
mad cry, La Propriete c'est le vol! they 
heard another and a divine voice saying, 
"No kingdom can stand which exalts 
' the thfngs that a man has above the 
' man himself. Old dynasties have fallen 
' for this sin ; this young dynasty has 
' fallen for it ; democracies will fall for 
' it just as much." 

The practical methods which these two 
readings of the same events have sug- 
gested are necessarily opposite. Let 
each be tried by its results. In France 
the necessity of enduring anything that 
the risks to property might be averted 
has led to the establishment of a tyranny 
which crushes thought, intelligence, 
manhood ; do those who care only for 

The Su/rage. 


prosperity, and for peace as the great 
instrument of prosperity, feel that it 
makes them safe 1 In England how far 
has the mere fear of a third class served 
to hold the upper class and the middle 
class in union ? The great middle-class 
orator is the person who is causing most 
alarm to the upper class and to many of 
his own. He throws himself upon the 
sympathies of the working-class; he tells 
them that the aristocracy is plotting 
their ruin ; he points them to the insti- 
tutions of America as emphatically the 
cheap institutions. If these are rather 
ideals to be admired than to be realized, 
at least by a great addition . to the suf- 
frage some of their principal advantages 
may be secured. Such statements fill 
our Conservative politicians with terror. 
They think something must be conceded 
to these dangerous working men. How 
much must be conceded, how much can 
be saved, they ask, sometimes with 
anxiety, sometimes with a sort of des- 
perate indifference. They appeal to the 
letter of Lord Macaulay respecting Jef- 
ferson as evidence that the most accom- 
plished and philosophical defender of 
the old Reform Bill dreaded any exten- 
sion of it which should make property a 
less necessary element in a constituency; 
that he regarded the want of reverence 
for the sacredness of property as the 
great defect and danger of American 
institutions. They debate languidly and 
listlessly, with a sort of resignation to 
the inevitable yet with anger at each 
other for having produced the inevit- 
able how many of what they regard as 
the old safeguards of the Constitution 
can still be defended ; beyond what 
point in the scale of poverty it is possi- 
ble to go, with only a moderate risk of 

Those who take the other view of 
this subject cannot help being struck 
with the fact, which I noticed at the 
commencement of this paper, that the 
working classes do not exhibit that pas- 
sionate sympathy with Mr. Bright' s 
appeals which might naturally be looked 
for; at all events, that they are quite 
open to appeals of directly the opposite 
kind ; that they are more moved when 

they are told that the soil on which they 
dwell is a precious and sacred thing, 
which it is their duty and their privilege 
to defend. That they may become 
utterly indifferent to such words ; that, 
if those who use them merely adopt 
them for their own selfish ends, they 
will lose all their weight, and that then 
the working people will only care to 
think of themselves as a class which 
has an interest at war with the other 
classes; is obvious enough. But it is 
not so yet. It is evident to those who 
look upon them with fair, not partial, 
eyes, that they wish to be recognised as 
members of the nation, not to stand 
aloof from it ; to have a common inte- 
rest with the other classes, not an interest 
which is opposed to theirs or destruc- 
tive of theirs. They have the same 
temptations to be a self-seeking class as 
the aristocracy have, as the shopkeepers 
have, no greater temptation. But they 
must desire, in proportion as they are 
true to themselves, to maintain that the 
manhood which they share with others 
is greater than the property which they 
do not share with them ; that this is a 
higher title to belong to the nation than 
that ; that only so far as those who have 
property have also manhood, can they 
be honourable or useful citizens. Could 
Lord Macaulay think that America was 
in danger from holding a faith of this 
kind ? Surely, if he did, he dissented 
from the great majority of those in Eng- 
land, or in the United States, who mourn 
over American transgressions, and dread 
American examples. When we talk of 
the omnipotent guinea, we surely do not 
mean that that thriving people hold the 
possession or the acquisition of gold in 
too low estimation. When we allude to 
their defences of the " sacred social insti- 
tution," we surely do not mean to charge 
them with an over-reverence for the 
human being, for being too apt to con- 
sider the mere possession of a body and 
soul a qualification for citizenship. . 

It can hardly be expected that the 
mere politician should feel the force of 
this objection, or that any person should, 
who is content merely to call himself a 
member of the upper class or of the 


The Suffrage. 

trading class. One had hoped that such 
a man as Lord Macaulay, who had 
relations with each of these, but who 
belonged more strictly to the profes- 
sional or the literary class, than to 
any of them, would have felt in that 
character, if not in the character of an 
old anti-slavery champion, the duty of 
not allowing such a triumph to Jefferson 
and his school as is implied in the admis- 
sion that their constitution rests on 
manhood and ours on property. Many 
circumstances in his position may have 
made him less able to perceive the peril 
of this stigma upon England and com- 
pliment to America than many inferior 
men born for a later time. It seems to 
me of infinite importance that the pro- 
fessional men and literary men of our 
day should thoroughly understand them- 
selves on this point, that so they may 
be able thoroughly to understand the 
working classes. They ought to feel 
that their very existence as members of 
professions their work as men o'f letters 
is inseparable from the belief that the 
accidents of position, the possession of 
outward wealth, is not that which makes 
the citizen. Just so far as they hold fast 
this faith, just so far will they be free 
from the sordid admiration of wealth 
which is another name for the sordid 
envy of it just so far will they be able 
to show the possessors of wealth what 
it is good for, because they do not crawl 
to it or worship it. They may teach the 
nobleman to reverence his position as a 
member of a family, as the inheritor of 
glorious memories and obligations. They 
may teach the member of the trading 
class to feel that on him devolve also 
high memories and great responsibi- 
lities ; that he, as the maintainer of 
municipal rights and freedom, has not a 
less noble position than the greatest 
proprietor of the soil But they can only 
do this while they maintain their own 
position as men who, not in virtue of 
any hereditary title, not in virtue of any 
mercantile dignity, deal with the laws 
of the body, of the mind, of the spirit, 
and with those by which society is go- 
Terned and upheld from age to age. 
If they take this ground, they must 

feel that their closest and most natural 
allies are in that class which stands like 
theirs upon the ground of manhood, which 
cannot stand upon the ground of pos- 
session. That we have all failed, griev- 
ously and disgracefully failed, in taking 
up this position and doing this work, 
that we have more to answer for than 
all politicians for the ignorance of the 
working people respecting their political 
position and political duties, and for 
any errors into which they may fall 
through counsellors who will lead them 
to think unworthily of themselves by 
stirring them up to unworthy suspi- 
cions of their fellows, we are bound 
always to confess. But this confes- 
sion will not be an honest and practical 
one if we fancy that we can make 
the people aware of these duties by 
merely preaching about them and de- 
nouncing the neglect of them. The 
claim of the people to a share in the 
suffrage is an honest and healthy claim ; 
a claim to have a part in the interests 
of the nation in the toils and suffer- 
ings of the nation. They have not been 
too earnest in putting forward this 
claim ; they have been too indifferent 
about it. We all know that we also 
have been careless and indifferent about 
it to a shameful degree. We can in- 
terpret their apathy by our own. 
We have not cared to use the rights 
which we have actually possessed, be- 
cause we have not understood what was 
the worth of our individual votes. They 
will go for nothing, we have said ; they 
will be utterly swamped ; we shall not 
be represented after all ; men will be 
returned whom we do not wish for ; 
men who are put forth by clubs or 
parliamentary agents ; men who can 
bribe ; men who can lie. What can 
we do against these ? Cannot we sup- 
pose that an honest worker feels a 
like despair ? The despair may often 
take the form with him of tempting 
him utterly to part with his honesty ; 
of leading him to think that it cannot 
be a sin for him to receive what it is 
counted no sin in a rich man to offer ; 
that he shall do no more harm in 
entertaining one trafficker with his con- 

The Suffrage. 


science than another. Can we not also 
imagine that, when he sees all the de- 
gradation which men of property have 
inflicted on him, and on his class, he 
should cry out for getting rid of that 
influence altogether. " Let us have 
manhood suffrage," he exclaims; "no 
other will serve our turn." 

I wish the professional men to tell 
him that no other will serve his turn or 
their turn either. To get t/tatto get 
all the manhood we can into our consti- 
tuencies, and into our representatives 
this must be our common object. And I 
am not playing with phrases in a double 
sense. I am not meaning one thing by 
the Avords while he means another. He 
means what I mean. He finds his present 
position an unmanly one, and he wishes 
to be put in the way of making it more 
manly. He wishes to feel that he has 
a distinct place in the commonwealth, 
and that no power of purse or of num- 
bers deprives him of that place. They 
traffic with words in a double sense 
they cheat him with fictions in place of 
realities who would persuade him that 
a mere large numerical addition to the 
constituency, unaccompanied with other 
provisions, will give him more of a dis- 
tinct position than he has already ; will, 
in any degree whatever, emancipate him 
from the influences of property, or pre- 
vent that influence from being exerted 
in the most odious way to the damag- 
ing of his dignity as a man. Let there 
be three OOO's following a 1 ; you call 
that a thousand votes ; let there be six 
000,000's following a 1 ; you call that 
a million votes. But this is not man- 
hood suffrage. Let 1 be a large pro- 
prietor, they are his votes. Let 1 be 
a priest, they are his votes. The agitator, 
perhaps, cries, " Oh, no ! they will be 
mine." Yes, till the next agitator 
comes. But there will be no manhood 
in any one of these cases. 

That our old constitution did aim, by 
such means as it had, at finding the 
manhood, the names by which the 
voters for our counties and towns were 
of old designated sufficiently proves. 
The one was a holder of land ; true ; 
but a free holder ; one who had given 

pledges that he was able to emancipate 
that holding of his from territorial do- 
minion. The other was emphatically a 
free man ; one that had given pledges, 
by passing through an apprenticeship, 
and by entering into some local commu- 
nity, of which he was a bond fide mem- 
ber, that he had a capacity for obedience 
and for fellowship. The tests have be- 
come utterly obsolete ; have the prin- 
ciples which are implied in the tests 
become obsolete also 1 I think not ; I 
think the great question must still be, 
Who are the freeholders ? who are the 
freemen 1 ? Let them choose our repre- 
sentatives ; ,all others will be slavish 
themselves, and will be likely to choose 
those who will make them more slavish. 
If professional men and literary men, 
instead of treating this subject as one 
with which they have no concern, or 
which only offers them an excuse for 
writing clever articles against the dif- 
ferent political schools, would honestly 
apply their faculties to the considera- 
tion of these questions, I belieye they 
would be led to a result which might 
be most beneficial to them, to the work- 
ing classes, and to the whole country. 
I do not mean that they should make 
an effort to procure a distinct position 
for themselves in the constituency. 
That proposal was made two or three 
years ago, and was embodied in a me- 
morial to Lord Palmerston, which re- 
ceived the signatures of some eminent 
men. They did not, I believe, hold any 
common deliberation ; even friends who 
put down their names to the document, 
did not talk with one another about 
their reasons for doing it. It "con- 
tained, therefore, a number of indepen- 
dent opinions ; but there was not that 
comparison and weighing of evidence 
which ought to have preceded the sug- 
gestion of a course of action. As a 
witness against a constituency which 
should owe all its force either to its 
numbers or to its possessions, the memo- 
rial had a real importance. Few, I 
think, would have pledged themselves 
then, fewer still would pledge themselves 
now, to the details of the plan which it 
recommended. Perhaps it was better to 


The Suffrage. 

show that some plan had been thought 
of; its very deficiencies were sure to 
provoke criticism and inquiry. If the 
earlier criticisms rather strengthened 
the memorialists in their scheme if 
they were not quite persuaded that lite- 
rary and professional men do not want 
to be more interested in the business of 
the country, by being told that they 
were likely to talk of triremes when 
they should talk of gunboats there 
have been later comments of immense 
value, comments neither scornful nor 
merely negative, but proceeding from 
earnest and most able thinkers, who 
believe that the demands of professional 
men for an increased number of inde- 
pendent and intelligent voters, and of 
working men for their own admission, 
in the fullest and largest sense, into the 
commonwealth, may be entirely met 
and reconciled. 

Mr. Mill's " Thoughts on Parliamen- 
tary Reform" 1 have been for more than a 
year before the public. But no work of 
his can become out of date in one year or 
in twenty years ; this one has, I believe, 
gained a vast additional worth by the ex- 
perience of the twelve months since it was 
brought forth. He has now published a 
new edition of it, which contains a Sup- 
plement worthy of the pamphlet and wor- 
thy of the author. In it he expresses, 
with characteristic modesty and gene- 
rosity, the enlargement, and in some 
particulars the change, which has been 
made in his views by reading the 
" Treatise on the Election of Representa- 
tives, Parliamentary and Municipal," 
by Thomas Hare, Esq., Barrister-at-Law. 2 
The following remarks introduce Mr. 
Mill's notice of that work : 

"Though Mr. Hare has delivered an 
opinion and generally, in our judgment, a 
wise one on nearly all the questions at pre- 
sent in issue connected with representative 
government ; the originality of his plan, as 
well as most of the effects to be expected 
from it, turn on the development which he 
has given to what is commonly called the 
Representation of Minorities. He has raised 
this principle to an importance and dignity 
which no previous thinker had ascribed to it. 

1 J. W. Parker, West Strand. 

2 Longman, Brown, Green, Longman and 
Roberts, 1859. 

As conceived by him, it should be called the 
real, instead of nominal, representation of 
every individual elector. 

" That minorities in the nation ought in prin- 
ciple, if it be possible, to be represented by 
corresponding minorities in the legislative as- 
sembly, is a necessary consequence from all 
premises on which any representation at all 
can be defended. In a deliberative assembly 
the minority must perforce give way, because 
the decision must be either ay or no ; but it 
is not so in choosing those who are to form 
the deliberative body : that ought to be the 
express image of the wishes of the nation, 
whether divided or unanimous, in the desig- 
nation of those by whose united counsels it 
will be ruled; and any section of opinion 
which is unanimous within itself, ought to be 
able, in due proportion to the rest, to con- 
tribute its elements towards the collective 
deliberation. At present, if three-fifths of the 
electors vote for one person and two-fifths for 
another, every individual of the two-fifths is, 
for the purposes of that election, as if he did 
not exist : his intelligence, his preference, have 
gone for nothing in the composition of the 
Parliament. Whatever was the object designed 
by the Constitution in giving him a vote, that 
object, at least on the present occasion, has 
not been fulfilled ; and if he can be reconciled 
to his position, it must be by the consideration 
that some other time he may be one of a 
majority, and another set of persons instead of 
himself may be reduced to cyphers : just as, 
before a regular government had been esta- 
blished, a man might have consoled himself 
for being robbed, by the hope that another 
time he might be able to rob some one else. 
But this compensation, however gratifying, 
will be of no avail to him if he is everywhere 
overmatched, and the same may be said of the 
elector who is habitually outvoted. 

" Of late years several modes have" been sug- 
gested of giving an effective voice to a minority; 
by limiting each elector to fewer votes than 
the number of members to be elected, or 
allowing him to concentrate all his votes on 
the same candidate. These various schemes 
are praiseworthy so far as they go, but they 
attain the object very imperfectly. * * * 
" Mr. Hare offers an outlet from this diffi- 
culty. The object being that the suffrages of 
those who are in a minority locally, should 
tell in proportion to their number on the 
composition of the Parliament; since this is 
all that is required, why should it be impera- 
tive that their votes should be received only 
for some one who is a local candidate ? Why 
might they not give their suffrage to any one 
who is a candidate anywhere, their number of 
votes being added to those which he may 
obtain elsewhere ? Suppose that a comparison 
between the number of members of the House 
and of registered electors in the kingdom, 
gives a quotient of 2,000 as the number of 
electors per member, on an average of the 
whole country (which, according to Mr. Hare's 

The Suffrage. 


calculation, is not far from the fact, if the 
existing electoral body is supposed to be aug- 
mented by 200,000) : why should not any can- 
didate, who can obtain 2,000 suffrages in the 
whole kingdom, be returned to Parliament? 
By the supposition, 2,000 persona are sufficient 
to return a member, and there are 2,000 who 
unanimously desire to have him for their 
representative. Their claim to be represented 
surely does not depend on their all residing in 
the same place. Since one member can be 
given to every 2,000, the most just mode of 
arrangement and distribution must evidently 
be, to give the member to 2,000 electors who 
have voted for him, rather than to 2,000 some 
of whom have voted against him. We should 
then be assured that every member of the 
House has been wished for by 2,000 of the 
electoral body ; while in the other case, even 
if all the electors have voted, he may possibly 
have been wished for by no more than a thou- 
sand and one. 

" This arrangement provides for all the 
difficulties involved in representation of mi- 
norities. The smallest minority obtains an 
influence proportioned to its numbers; the 
largest obtains no more. The representation 
becomes, what under no other system it can 
be, really equal. Every member of Parlia- 
ment is the representative of an unanimous 
constituency. No one is represented, or rather 
misrepresented, by a member whom he has 
voted against. Every elector in the kingdom 
is represented by the candidate he most pre- 
fers, if as many persons in the whole extent 
of the country are found to agree with him, as 
come up to the number entitled to a represen- 
tative." Thoughts, pp. 41 44. 

I have made this long extract because 
my first knowledge of Mr. Hare's work 
was derived from Mr. Mill's supple- 
ment, and because nothing I can say of 
it can possibly induce my readers to 
study it, if such an account of it coming 
from such an authority does not. That 
it will reward those who give their minds 
to it, for other reasons than those which 
Mr. Mill has mentioned, I think I can 
promise. I have read no book for a long 
time which combines so much noble- 
ness of thought, and so much general 
philosophy with a devotion to details, and 
the acuteness of a practised lawyer. It 
is delightful to find one who proposes 
so wide a representative reform sus- 
taining himself by the weighty words of 
Burke, the enemy throughout his life of 
changes in the representation ; and these 

words taken from the strongest of all 
his later writings, the " Appeal from the 
New to the Old Whigs." It is scarcely 
less satisfactory to find the American 
statesman, Mr. Calhoun, adduced as the 
able protester against the tyranny of 
mere majorities. Mr. Hare is an excel- 
lent specimen of that zeal for the moral 
as superior to the material interests of 
the community, which I have demanded 
of professional and literary men. He 
has given a proof, not only to lawyers, 
but perhaps still more to clergymen, 
how possible it is to combine the most 
energetic desire for reform with the 
truest Conservatism. None need accept 
his solution of the puzzle ; but he has 
proved that the most difficult problems 
need not be abandoned as desperate. 
Since we may reasonably conclude that 
the Reform Bill of 1860 is now practi- 
cally dead, I do hope and trust that 
instead of merely singing requiems or 
songs of triumph over it, instead of 
making its failure an excuse for party 
recrimination or class jealousies, or for 
the indolent conclusion that what has 
not been done cannot be done, wise men 
will exert themselves to devise some 
measure which shall meet the necessities 
of this time, because it is in accord- 
ance with principles that belong to all 
times ; which shall not satisfy the lust 
of political power in any class, because 
it will satisfy the honest craving for a 
national position in all. 1 

1 To utter the phrase, " The Suffrage is not 
a privilege so much as an obligation " is easy ; 
to awaken the sense of obligation in our own 
minds or in the minds of working men is the 
difficulty. Mr. Hare's scheme would remove 
one chief hindrance to the efforts of those 
who try to awaken it. It would give the 
suffrage another than a market value. Those 
pseudo-spiritualists, who say that no moral 
change 1 can be effected by a mere change of 
machinery, should ask themselves whether 
the Reform Bill of 1832 effected no moral 
change by reducing the days of polling. Mr. 
Mill has replied to the charge against his pro- 
posals that they were complicated. The Bill 
in which they are embodied is simpler, he 
maintains, than that which it would repeal. 





LATE in tlie month a rude East Wind came down, 

A roaring wind, which for a time had sway ; 

But other powers possess' d the night and day, 

And soon he found he could not hold his own. 

The merry ruddock whistled at his heart, 

And strenuous blackbirds pierc'd his flanks with song ; 

Pert sparrows wrangled o'er his every part, 

And through him shot the larks on pinions strong ; 

Anon, a sunbeam brake across the plain, 

And the wild bee went forth on booming wing ; 

Whereat he feeble wax'd, but rose again 

With aimless rage, and idle blustering : 

The south wind touch'd him with a drift of rain, 

And down he sank a captive to the Spring ! 


YON blackbird's merry heart the rushing wind 

Quells not, nor disconcerts his golden tongue, 

That breaks my morning dream with well-known song. 

Full many a breezy March I've left behind, 

Whose gales, all spirited with notes and trills, 

Blew over peaceful England ; and, ere long, 

Another March will come these hills among, 

To clash the lattices, and whirl the mills ; 

But what shall be ere then ? Ambition's lust 

Is broad awake, and, gazing from a throne 

But newly-set, counts half the world his own ; 

All ancient covenants aside are thrust 

Old land-marks are like scratches in the dust 

His eagles wave their wings and they are gone ! 

Four Sonnets. 99 


As on my bed at morn I nuts' d and prayM, 

I saw my lattice figur'd on the wall, 

The flaunting leaves and flitting birds withal 

A sunny phantom interlac'd with shade j 

" Thanks be to heaven ! " in happy mood I said ; 

" What sweeter aid my matins could befal 

" Than this fair glory from the east hath made 1 

" What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of aU, 

" To make us feel and see ! We are not free 

"To say we see not, for the glory comes 

" Nightly and daily like the flowing sea ; 

" His lustre pierceth through the midnight glooms, 

" And, at prime hour, behold, He follows me 

" With golden shadows to my secret rooms ! " 


THOUGH Death met Love upon thy dying smile, 

And sta/d him there for hours, yet the orbs of sight 

So speedily resign'd their azure light, 

That Christian hope fell earthward for a while, 

Appall' d by dissolution. But on high 

A record lives of thine identity ; 

Thou shalt not lose one charm of lip or eye ; 

The hues and liquid lights shall wait for thee, 

And the fair tissues, wheresoe'er they be ! 

Daughter of Heaven ! our stricken hearts repose 

On the dear thought that we once more shall see 

Thy beauty like Himself our Master rose : 

Then shall that beauty its old rights maintain, 

And thy sweet spirit own those eyes again. 

May 12th. 





A COPY of " Stockdale's Budget," con- 
taining the letters by Shelley now re- 
published, was purchased by the British 
Museum in 1859, and came under my 
notice in the autumn of that year. 
Struck by the interesting nature of this 
correspondence, and especially by the 
discovery of an early work by Shelley, 
previously unknown to all his biogra- 
phers, I lost no time in communicating 
the circumstance to his family, whose 
acquaintance it was already my privi- 
lege to possess. It was at first hoped 
that these letters might have appeared 
in the second edition of the " Shelley 
Memorials," but it was found that the 
printing of that work was already too 
far advanced to allow of their being in- 
serted in their proper place. They were 
accordingly reserved for the third edi- 
tion ; but the prospect of this being 
required appearing as yet somewhat re- 
mote, it has been finally determined to 
publish them in a separate form. I have 
accordingly copied them from the obscure 
periodical in which they originally ap- 
peared, and added such explanations as 
seemed needful to render the connexion 
of the whole intelligible. 

Much has been written about Shelley 
during the last three or four years, and 
the store of materials for his biography 
has been augmented by many particulars, 
some authentic and valuable, others 
trivial or mythical, or founded on mis- 
takes or misrepresentations. It does 
not strictly fall within the scope of this 
paper to notice any of these, but some 
of the latter class are calculated to mo- 
dify so injuriously what has hitherto 
been the prevalent estimate of Shelley's 
character, and, while entirely unfounded, 
are yet open to correction from the 
better knowledge of so few, that it 
would be inexcusable to omit an oppor- 
tunity of comment which only chance 
has presented, and which may not 
speedily recur. It will be readily per- 

ceived that the allusion is to the state- 
ments respecting Shelley's separation 
from his first wife, published by Mr. 
T. L. Peacock in F reiser's Magazine for 
January last. According to these, the 
transaction was not preceded by long- 
continued unhappiness, neither was it 
an amicable agreement effected in 
virtue of a mutual understanding. The 
time cannot be distant when these 
assertions must be refuted by the pub- 
lication of documents hitherto withheld, 
and Shelley's family have doubted whe- 
ther it be worth while to anticipate it. 
Pending their decision, I may be allowed 
to state most explicitly that the evi- 
dence to which they would in such a 
case appeal, and to the nature of which 
I feel fully competent to speak, most 
de'cidedly contradicts the allegations of 
Mr. Peacock. 

So extensive is the miscellaneous bib- 
liographic and literary lore lying safely 
hidden away in unsuspected quarters, 
that a line of inquiry in Notes and 
Queries would almost certainly elicit some 
one able to tell \is all about the ancient 
publishing-house of the Stockdales, father 
and son to inform us when they com- 
menced business, and where and what 
were the principal books they published, 
and in what years, and how these spe- 
culations respectively turned out and 
so trace the Pall Mall chameleon through 
all its changes from original whiteness 
to the undeniable sable of the publication 
we are about to notice. 

It is even possible that a moderate 
amount of laudable industry might have 
enabled us to do all this ourselves, and 
thus to present the grateful or ungrateful 
reader with a complete bibliopolic mo- 
nography. Feeling, however, for our 
own parts, a very decided distaste to the 
minute investigation of unimportant 
matters, and interested in John Joseph 
Stockdale as far as, and no further than, 

Shelley in .Pall Mall. 


he was concerned in the affairs of Percy 
Bysshe Shelley, we have chosen to as- 
sume that the reader's feelings are the 
same, and that he will be content Avith 
knowing just as much about the pub- 
lisher as is absolutely necessary to ex- 
plain his connexion with the poet, and 
the circumstances under which he came 
to print the notes written to him by the 
latter. During, then, the last twenty 
years of the eighteenth and the first 
twenty of the nineteenth century, the 
Stockdales' publishing-house (located for 
part of the time in Pall Mall, and part, 
if we mistake not, in Piccadilly) was 
resorted to by novelists, poets, and more 
particularly dramatists. It was the chief, 
almost the sole orthodox and accredited 
medium for perpetuating the transient 
applause which the play-going public 
vouchsafes to the dramatist. It pur- 
veyed the patrons of circulating libraries 
with a mental diet as light as Jndia- 
rubber, and no less wholesome and 
digestible; and facilitated the ambition 
of all young poets willing to be immortal- 
ised at their own costs and charges. As 
universally known, the author of the 
" Cenci" never had a chance of immor- 
tality on easier terms ; the conditions 
on which "Paradise Lost" was disposed 
of were princely compared to any which 
any publisher ever thought of tendering 
to him ; and as his first aspirations after 
literary renown began to stir within 
him in the younger Stockdale's palmy 
days, and lay altogether within the scope 
of the tatter's publishing business, it 
might almost have been predicted that 
these two most dissimilar men would 
not pass away without some slight con- 
tact or mutual influence. In fact, 
Shelley's second novel bears the name 
of Stockdale as the publisher ; and the 
singular discovery of a portion of the 
business correspondence that passed be- 
tween the two respecting this publi- 
cation now enables us not merely to 
write the history of the connexion, which 
might probably, be acceptable to none 
but a thorough-going hero-worshipper, 
but perhaps to throw some light on the 
feelings which possessed, and the influ- 
ences which contributed to mould one 

of the most original of human spirits, at 
the most momentous, if not the most 
eventful period of its earthly existence. 

It has already been stated that this 
correspondence originally appeared in 
" Stockdale's Budget ; " it now remains 
to be explained what Stockdale's Budget 
was. It was a periodical, issued in 
1827 ; a sort of appendix to the more 
celebrated "Memoirs of Harriet "Wilson," 
published by Stockdale some years pre- 
viously, and well known to the amateurs 
of disreputable literature. The present 
writer has never seen this work, and for 
actual purposes it will be quite sufficient 
to state that it proved the soiirce of 
infinite trouble to the unlucky pub- 
lisher, not on account of its immorality, 
which seems to have been unquestion- 
able, but from its attacks on private 
character. Owing to these, Stockdale be- 
came the object of a succession of legal 
proceedings, which speedily exhausted 
his purse, while his business vanished, 
and left not a wreck behind. Such a 
result could have surprised no man of 
ordinary understanding, but the united 
tongues of men and of angels would fail 
in conveying any adequate notion of the 
publisher's stolidity and obtuseness. He 
really considered himself an injured man, 
and the " Budget" was established as 
the means of impressing the same idea 
on others. Stockdale's method of ratio- 
cination was certainly somewhat peculiar. 
Peers, he argued, do not always live hap- 
pily with their wives. There is a baro- 
net in custody in the midland counties, 
charged with assault ; have they not just 
taken the Hon. Wellesley Pole's chil- 
dren from him 1 and what can be more 
shocking than that abduction case of the 
Wakefields 1 ? Argal, I, Stockdale, was 
quite justified in publishing those dis- 
agreeable particulars about Mr. , 

and the seizure of my furniture in conse- 
quence was an act of worse than Eussian 

In strict conformity with the princi- 
ples of the Baconian philosophy, this 
conclusion was based on a wide induc- 
tion, derived from all the instances of 
aristocratic frailty on which the pub- 
lisher could possibly lay his hands, 


Shelley in Pall Mall. 

accompanied by appropriate comments, 
and, when the supply failed to meet the 
demand, eked out by a compilation from 
the ordinary reports of the police courts. 
It cannot be said that there is anything 
positively immoral or libellous in the 
publication, but a duller or more un- 
inviting accumulation of garbage it 
has never been our lot to see, and the 
only circumstance which could tempt 
any one to examine it, is the fact that 
Stockdale, searching among his MS. 
stores for letters from public characters, 
calculated to lend interest to his publi- 
cation, stumbled on the notes, or rather 
some of them, addressed to him by 
Shelley during their brief business con- 
nexion. These he proceeded to publish, 
accompanied by a highly characteristic 
commentary, from which some particu- 
lars of real interest may be gleaned. 
The style of these letters sufficiently 
attests their genuineness ; nor can we 
peruse Stockdale' s acknowledged com- 
positions without perceiving that the 
writer was in every sense incapable of a 
forgery, even if, in 1827, it had been 
worth any one's while to vilify the poet 
in a periodical. 

Shelley's first introduction to Stock- 
dale was verbal, and occurred under 
singularly characteristic circumstances. 
In the autumn of 1810 he presented 
himself at the publisher's place of busi- 
ness, and requested his aid in extricat- 
ing him from a dilemma in which he 
had involved himself by commissioning 
a printer at Horsham to strike off four- 
teen hundred and eighty copies of a 
volume of poems, without having the 
wherewithal to discharge his account. 
He could hardly have expected Stock- 
dale to do it for him, and the tatter's 
silence is conclusive testimony that he 
contributed no pecuniary assistance, 
liberal as he doubtless was with good 
advice. By some means, however, the 
mute inglorious Aldus of Horsham was 
appeased, and the copies of the work 
transferred to Stockdale, who proceeded 
to advertise them, and take the other 
usual steps to promote their sale. An 
advertisement of "Original Poetry, by 
Victor and Cazire," will be found in 

the Morning Chronicle of September 
18, 1810, and the assumed duality of 
authorship was not, like the particular 
names employed, fictitious. The poems 
were principally Shelley thought en- 
tirely the production of himself and 
a friend, and it becomes a matter of 
no small interest to ascertain who this 
friend was. It was not Mr. Hogg, 
whose acquaintance Shelley had not 
yet made, nor Captain Medwin, or the 
circumstance would have been long 
since made public. 

A more likely coadjutor would be 
Harriet Grove, Shelley's cousin, and the 
object of his first attachment, who is 
said to have aided him in the compo- 
sition of his first romance, " Zastrozzi." 
Indeed, "Cazire" seems to be intended for 
a female name ; perhaps it was adopted 
from some novel. However this may 
be, the little book had evidently been 
ushered into the world under an unlucky 
star; few and evil were its days. It 
had hardly been published a week when 
Stockdale, inspecting it with more at- 
tention than he had previously had lei- 
sure to bestow, recognised one of the 
pieces as an old acquaintance in the 
pages of M. G. Lewis, author of "The 
Monk." It was but too clear that Shel- 
ley's colleague, doubtless under the com- 
pulsion of the poet's impetuous solici- 
tations for more verses, had appropriated 
whatever came first to hand, with slight 
respect for pedantic considerations of 
meum and tuum. Stockdale lost- no 
time in communicating his discovery to 
his employer, whose mortification may 
be imagined, and his directions for the 
instant suppression of the edition anti- 
cipated. By this time, however, nearly 
a hundred copies had been put into 
circulation, so that we will not alto- 
gether resign the hope of yet recovering 
this interesting volume, hitherto totally 
unknown to, or at least unnoticed by 
all Shelley's biographers. Only one of 
the letters relating to it remains ; x with 
the exception of the childish note printed 

1 We have not scrupled to occasionally 
correct an obvious clerical error in these 
letters, generally the result of haste, some- 
times of a misprint. 

Shelley in Pall Mall. 


by Medwin, the earliest letter of Shelley 
that has been preserved : 

" FIELD PLACE, September 6th, 1810. 

" SIR, I have to return you my 
thankful acknowledgments for the re- 
ceipt of the books, which arrived as soon 
as I had any reason to expect : the 
superfluity shall be balanced as soon as 
I pay for some books which I shall 
trouble you to bind for me. 

" I enclose you the title-page of the 
Poems, which, as you see, you have 
mistaken on account of the illegibility 
of my handwriting. I have had the 
last proof impression from the printer 
this morning, and I suppose the exe- 
cution of the work will not be long de- 
layed. As soon as it possibly can, it 
shall reach you, and believe me, sir, 
grateful for the interest you take in it. 

" I am, sir, 
" Your obedient humble servant, 


Shelley soon forgot the mishaps of 
Victor and his Cazire, in fresh literary 
projects. He had already placed the 
MS. of " St. Irvyne, or the Kosicrucian," 
in Stockdale's hands, and on September 
28th he offered him the copyright of his 
schoolboy epic, written in conjunction 
with Captain Medwia, " The Wandering 
Jew" : 

"FIELD PLACE, September 28<A, 1810. 

" SIR, I sent, before I had the plea- 
sure of knowing you, the MS. of a poem 
to Messrs. Ballantyne and Co. Edin- 
burgh ; they declined publishing it, 
with the enclosed letter. I now offer 
it to you, and depend upon your honour 
as a gentleman for a fair price for the 
copyright It will be sent to you from 
Edinburgh. The subject is, 'The Wander- 
ing Jew.' As to its containing atheistical 
principles, I assure you I was wholly 
unaware of the fact hinted at. Your 
good sense will point out to you the 
impossibility of inculcating pernicious 
doctrines in a poem which, as you will 
see, is so totally abstract from any cir- 

cumstances which occur under the possi- 
ble view of mankind. 

"I am, sir, 

" Your obliged and humble servant, 

The enclosure a curiosity is as 
follows : 

" EDINBURGH, September 24<&, 1810. 

" SIR, The delay which occurred in 
our reply to you respecting the poem 
you have obligingly offered us for publi- 
cation, has arisen from our. literary 
friends and advisers (at least such as we 
have confidence in) being in the country 
at this season, as is usual, and the time 
they have bestowed in its perusal. 

" We are extremely sorry, at length, 
after the most mature deliberation, to 
be under the necessity of declining the 
honour of being the publishers of the 
present poem ; not that we doubt its 
success, but that it is, perhaps, better 
suited to the character and liberal feel- 
ings of the English, than the bigoted 
spirit which yet pervades many culti- 
vated minds in this country. Even 
Walter Scott is assailed on all hands at 
present by our Scotch spiritual and 
Evangelical magazines and instructors, 
for having promulgated atheistical doc- 
trines in the ' Lady of the Lake.' 

" We beg you will have the goodness 
to advise us how it should be returned, 
and we think its being consigned to the 
care of some person in London would 
be more likely to ensure its safety than 
addressing it to Horsham. 

" We are, sir, 

" Your most obedient humble servants, 

Now, had Shelley told any of his 
friends that the "Lady of the Lake" 
had been assailed in Scotland on the 
ground of atheism, and professed to have 
derived his information from the Bal- 
lanfynes, the circumstance would ere 
this have made its appearance in print 
as a proof of his irresistible tendency to 
"hallucinations," and his "inability to 
"relate anything exactly as it hap- 
" pened," Here, however, we see that 
he would not have spoken without au- 


Shelley in Pall Mall. 

thority. It is, of course, quite possible 
that the Ballantynes may themselves 
have been mystified or mystificators 
otherwise it would appear that it had, in 
that fortunate age, been vouchsafed to 
certain Scotch clergymen to attain the 
ne plus ultra of absurdity 

" Topmost stars of unascended heaven, 
Pinnacled dim in the intense inane " 

or insane, whichever may be the cor- 
rect reading. It is needless to add that 
the " Wandering Jew " is quite guiltless 
of atheism, or any "ism" but an occa- 
sional solecism. Whatever precautions 
may have been taken to ensure the 
safety of the MS., they failed to bring 
it into Stockdale's hands. He never 
received it, and it seems to "have re- 
mained peaceably at Edinburgh till its 
discovery in 1831, when a portion of 
it appeared in Fraser's Magazine, and 
has since been reprinted in one of the 
many unauthorised editions of Shelley's 
works. According to Captain Medwin, 
indeed, Shelley left it at his lodgings in 
Edinburgh in 1811. But the Captain 
evidently knew nothing of the negotia- 
tion with the Ballantynes, which affords 
a much more plausible explanation of 
the discovery of the MS. in the Scotch 
metropolis. He adds, indeed, that the 
young authors were induced to lay aside 
all thoughts of publication by the ad- 
verse judgment of Campbell, who re- 
turned the MS. submitted for his in- 
spection with the remark that there 
were only two good lines in the whole, 
naming a pair of exceedingly common- 
place ones. Whatever the effect on his 
coadjutor, it is now clear that Shelley 
was not to be daunted by the condemna- 
tion even of a poet he admired, though, 
doubtless, he would have himself ad- 
mitted in after life that the quest after 
tolerable lines in the " Wandering Jew " 
might scarcely be more hopeful than 
that undertaken of old after righteous 
men in the Cities of the Plain. 

Poetry like Shelley's is not to be 
produced except under the immediate 
impulse of lively emotion, or without a 
long preliminary epoch of mental excite- 

ment and fermentation. The ordinary 
interchange of sunshine and shower suf- 
fices for the production of mustard, 
cress, and such-like useful vegetables; 
but Nature must have been disturbed to 
her centre ere there can be a Stromboli 
for Byron to moor his bark by for a long 
summer's night, and meditate a new 
canto of "Childe Harold." Shelley's 
mind was never in a more excited con- 
dition than during the autumn of 1810, 
and, at that time, like Donna Inez, 
"his favourite science was the meta- 
physical" he reasoned of matters ab- 
struse and difficult, " of fate, free-will, 
" foreknowledge absolute," of 

"Names, deeds, grey legends, dire 

events, rebellions, 
Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, 
Creations and destroyings." 

No other mental process could have 
equally developed the unparalleled 
glories of his verse. The enchanted 
readers of "Prometheus Unbound" and 
" Hellas " must admit that if Kant and 
Berkeley had not much poetry in them- 
selves, they were at all events the cause 
of transcendent poetry in others. But 
for his own ease and comfort it would 
certainly have been better if he could 
have agreed with Goethe that 

" Ein Mensch, der spekulirt, 
1st wie ein Thier, auf diirrer Haide 
Von einern bb'sen Geist im Kreis' 

herum gefiihrt, 
Und rings herum ist schbne, griine 


On November 12th he wrote to 
Stockdale : 

" OXFORD, Sunday. 

"SiR, I wish you to obtain for rne 
a book which answers to the following 
description. It is a Hebrew essay, de- 
monstrating that the Christian religion 
is false, and is mentioned in one of the 
numbers of the Christian Observer, 
last spring, by a clergyman, as an un- 
answerable, yet sophistical argument. 
If it is translated in Greek, Latin, or 

Shelley in Pall Mall. 


any of the European languages, I would 
thank you to send it to me. 

" I am, sir, your humble servant, 


We have searched the Observer in 
vain for the notice referred to. The 
letter, according to Stockdale, " satisfied 
" me that he was in a situation of im- 
" pending danger, from which the most 
"friendly and cautious prudence alone 
" could withdraw him." We shall see 
in due course what line of conduct the 
worthy "bookseller considered answerable 
to this definition. Two days later 
Shelley wrote : 

"UNIVERSITY COLL. Nov. 14tk, 1810. 

" DEAR SIR, I return you the Ro- 
mance [St. Irvyne] by this day's coach. 
I am much obligated 1 by the trouble you 
have taken to fit it for the press. I am 
myself by no means a good hand at cor- 
rection, but I think I have obviated the 
principal objections which you allege. 

" Ginotti, as you will see, did not die 
by Wolfstein's hand, but by the influ- 
ence of that natural magic which, when 
the secret was imparted to the latter, 
destroyed him. Mountfort being a cha- 
racter of inferior interest, I did not 
think it necessary to state the cata- 
strophe of him, as it could at best be but 
uninteresting. Eloise and Fitzeustace 
are married, and happy, I suppose, and 
Megalena dies by the same means as 
Wolfstein. I do not myself see any 
other explanation that is required. As 
to the method of publishing it, I think, 
as it is a thing which almost mecJiani- 
cally sells to circulating libraries, &c., 
I would wish it to be published on my 
own account, 

" I am surprised that you have not 
received the 'Wandering Jew,' and in 
consequence write to Mr. Ballantyne to 
mention it ; you will doubtlessly, there- 
fore, receive it soon. Should you still 
perceive in the romance any error of 
flagrant incoherency, &c. it must be 
altered, but I should conceive it will 

i Not a vulgarism in Shelley's day, any 
more than "ruinated." Both may be found 
in good writers of the 18th century. 

No. 8. VOL. II. 

(being wholly so abrupt) not require 

" Your sincere humble servant, 


" Shall you make this in one or two 
volumes'? Mr. Robinson, of Paternoster 
Row, published ' Zastrozzi.' " 

Certainly the faults of "St. Irvyne" 
were of the kind best amended by una 
litura. Nevertheless, it is as much 
better than "Zastrozzi" as one very 
bad book can be better than another. 
" Zastrozzi " is an absolute chaos ; in 
"St. Irvyne" there is at least the trace 
of an effort after organisation and inner 
harmony. Shelley's whole literary career 
was, viewed in one of its aspects, a con- 
stant struggle after the symmetry and 
command of material which denote the 
artist. The exquisiteness of his later 
productions shows that at last he had 
little to learn, and worthless as "St. 
Irvyne " is in itself, it becomes of high 
interest when regarded as the first feeble 
step of a mighty genius on the road to 
consummate excellence. Considered by 
themselves, "Zastrozzi "and "St. Irvyne" 
will appear the sort of production which 
clever boys often indite, and from which 
it is impossible to arrive at any sound 
conclusion as to the future eminence or 
obscurity of the writer. Their incohe- 
rency is an attribute which should not, 
their prolific imagination one which 
often cannot, survive the period of ex- 
treme youth. 

On November 20th, Shelley wrote 
thus : 

"UNI. COLL. Monday. 
" MY DEAR SIR, I did not think it 
possible that the romance would make 
but one small volume. It will at all 
events be larger than 'Zastrozzi' What 
I mean as ' Rosicrucian ' is, the elixir 
of eternal life which Ginotti had ob- 
tained. Mr. Godwin's romance of 'Si 
Leon' turns upon that superstition. 
I enveloped it in mystery for the greater 
excitement of interest, and, on a re- 
examination, you will perceive that 
Mountfort did physically kill Ginotti, 



Shelley in Pall Mall. 

which will appear from the latter' s pale- 

" Will you have the goodness to send 
me Mr. Godwin's ' Political Justice ' 1 

"When do you suppose 'St. Irvyne' 
will be out ? If you have not yet got 
the 'Wandering Jew' from Mr. B., I 
will send you a MS. copy which I 

" Yours sincerely, 


It appears from the next note that 
this copy was sent, hut it miscarried : 

"OXFORD, December 2d, 1810. 

"BEAR SIR, Will you, if you have 
got two copies of the ' Wandering Jew,' 
send one of them to me, as I have 
thought of some corrections which I 
wish to make ? Your opinion on it will 
likewise much oblige me. 

" When do you suppose that Southey's 
* Curse of Kehama ; will come out 1 I 
am curious to see it, and when does ' St. 
Irvyne ' come out ] 

" I shall be in London the middle of 
this month, when I will do myself the 
pleasure of calling on you. 

"Yours sincerely, 

" P. B. SHELLEY." 


December 18th, 1810. 

" MY DEAR SIR, I saw your adver- 
tisement of the Eomance, and appjove 
of it highly ; it is likely to excite curi- 
osity. I would thank you to send 
copies directed as follows : 

Miss Marshall, Horsham, Sussex. 

T. Medwin, Esq., Horsham, Sussex. 

T. J. Hogg, Esq., Eev. DayrelTs, 
Lynnington Dayrell, Buckingham, 
and six copies to myself. In case the 
' Curse of Kehama' x has yet appeared, 
I would thank you for that likewise. 
I have in preparation a novel ; it is 
principally constructed to convey meta- 
physical and political opinions by way 

1 It thus appears that " Kehama" cannot 
have been the poem with the MS. of which 
Southey is related to have read Shelley to 
leep. To us, the whole anecdote seems to 
come in a very questionable shape. 

of conversation. It shall be sent to you 
as soon as completed, but it shall receive 
more correction than I trouble myself to 
give to wild romance and poetry. 

"Mr. Munday, of Oxford, will take 
some romances ; I do not know whether 
he sends directly to you, or through the 
medium of another bookseller. I will 
enclose the printer's account for your 
inspection in another letter. 
" Dear sir, 

"Yours sincerely, 


Up to this date, then, Scythrop had 
only found three of the seven gold 
candlesticks. Mr. Hogg and Captain 
Medwin, as is well known, continued 
burning and shining lights; Miss Mar- 
shall, of whom we now hear for the 
first time, would appear to have been 
speedily extinguished. Speedy extinc- 
tion, too, was the fate of the MS. 
novel, of which the above is the first 
and last mention. 

Sir (then Mr.) Timothy Shelley, the 
poet's uncongenial father, now appears 
upon the scene. At the date of the 
next letter, he had already several times 
called at Stockdale's shop in the company 
of his son, and thus afforded the pub- 
lisher an opportunity of contributing 
the result of his own observation to the 
universal testimony respecting the dispo- 
sitions of the two, and the relation in 
which they stood to each other. Percy 
Shelley captivated all hearts; the rough- 
est were subdued by his sweetness, the 
most reserved won by his affectionate 
candour. No man ever made more 
strange or unsympathetic friends, and 
they who may seem to have dealt most 
hardly with his memory since his death 
are chiefly the well-meaning people 
whose error it has been to mistake an 
accidental intimacy with a remarkable 
character for the power of appreciating it. 
Among these, Stockdale cannot be refused 
a place, for it would be unjust not to 
recognise, amid all his pomposity and 
blundering, traces of a sincere affection 
for the young author whose acquaintance 
was certainly anything but advantageous 
to him in a pecuniary point of view. 

Shelley in Pall Mall. 


An equal unanimity of sentiment pre- 
vails respecting Sir Timothy; he un- 
doubtedly meant well, but had scarcely 
a single prominent trait of character 
which would not of itself have unfitted 
him to be the father of such a son. 
Stockdale had frequent opportunities 
of observing the uneasy terms on which 
the two stood towards each other, and 
unhesitatingly throws the entire blame 
upon the father, whom he represents 
as narrow-minded and wrong-headed, 
behaving with extreme niggardliness in 
money matters, and at the same time 
continually fretting Shelley by harsh and 
unnecessary interference with his most 
indifferent actions. According to the 
bookseller, he ineffectually tried his 
best at once to "dispose Sir Timothy to 
a more judicious line of conduct, and to 
put him on his guard against his son's 
speculative rashness. The following note 
is probably in answer to some communi- 
cation of this character. 

"FIELD PLACE, 23d December, 1810. 

" SIB, I take the earliest oppor- 
tunity of expressing to you my best 
thanks for the very liberal and hand- 
some manner in which you imparted to 
me the sentiments you hold towards my 
son, and the open and friendly com- 

" I shall ever esteem it, and hold it 
in remembrance. I will take an oppor- 
tunity of calling on you again, when the 
call at St. Stephen's Chapel enforces my 
attendance by a call of the House. 

"My son begs to make his compli- 
ments to you. 

" I have the honour to be, sir, 
"Your very obedient humble servant, 

On January llth, 1811, Shelley wrote 
as follows : 

" DEAR SIR, I would thank you to 
send a copy of 'St. Irvyne' to Miss 
Harriet Westbrook, 10, Chapel Street, 
Grosvenor Square. In the course of a 
fortnight I shall do myself the pleasure 
of calling on you. With respect to the 
printer's bill, I made him explain the 

distinctions of the costs, which I hope 
are intelligible. 

"Do you find that the public are capti- 
vated by the title-page of ' St. Irvyne 1 ' 
" Your sincere 

" P. B. SHELLEY." 

This is interesting, in so far as it assists 
us in determining the date of Shelley's 
first acquaintance with Harriet West- 
brook. Had he known her on December 
18th, he would probably have included 
her among those to whom he on that 
day desired that copies of his novel 
should be sent. It may then be inferred 
with confidence, that he first became 
interested in her between December 
18th, and January llth, and as there 
appears no trace of his having visited 
town during that period, his knowledge 
of her, when he wrote the second of these 
letters, was most likely merely derived 
from the accounts of his sisters, her 
schoolfellows. This accords with the 
assertion, made in an interesting but 
unpublished document in the writer's 
possession, that he first saw her in Ja- 
nuary, 1811. Whenever this and similar 
MSS. are made public, it will for the 
first time be clearly understood how 
slight was the acquaintance of Shelley 
with Harriet, previous to their marriage ; 
what advantage was taken of his chivalry 
of sentiment, and her compliant disposi- 
tion, and the inexperience of both ; and 
how little entitled or disposed she felt 
herself to complain of his behaviour. 

This was the last friendly communica- 
tion between Shelley and his publisher. 
Three days later we find Tiim writing thus 
to his friend Hogg (Hogg's "Life of 
Shelley," vol. I. p. 171) : 

" S [Stockdale] has behaved in- 
famously to me : he has abused the 
confidence I reposed in him in sending 
hinr my work ; and he has made very 
free with your character, of which he 
knows nothing, with my father. I shall 
call on S on my way [to Oxford], that 
he may explain." 

The work alluded to was either the 
unlucky pamphlet which occasioned 
Shelley's expulsion from Oxford, or some- 
thing of a very similar description. After 

i 2 


Shelley in Pall Mail. 

Mr. Hogg's account of it, it is sufficiently 
clear that this alarming performance was 
nothing else than a sqUib, prompted 
perhaps by the decided success of the bur- 
lesque verses the friends had published 
in the name of " My Aunt Margaret 
Nicholson ; " at all events a natural corol- 
lary from Shelley's inconvenient habit of 
writing interminable letters to everybody 
about everything. Of course Stockdale 
declined to print it himself, and we can 
readily believe that he employed his 
best efforts to dissuade Shelley from 
having it printed by another. There the 
matter might have rested, but, unluckily, 
in spite of Shelley's anticipations, the 
public had not been captivated by the 
title-page or any other portion of " St. 
Irvyne," and the bookseller was begin- 
ning to feel uneasy about his bill Shel- 
ley was a minor, dependent on a father 
persuaded that short allowances make 
good sons, and who, on the subject being 
delicately mooted to him, had less mildly 
than firmly declared his determination 
not to pay one single farthing. In this 
strait, Stockdale seems to have argued 
that he should best earn his claim by 
rendering the Shelleys an important 
service, which might be accomplished 
by preventing the appearance of Percy's 
adventurous pamphlet. At the same 
time, it was essential that his merits 
should be recognised by Sir Timothy, 
which could not well be, if he were 
scrupulous in respecting his son's con- 
fidence. Yet it was equally necessary to 
avoid creating an irreparable breach 
between the two, and therefore highly 
desirable to find some one to whose evil 
communications the deterioration of Shel- 
ley's patrician manners might be plau- 
sibly ascribed. Such a scape-goat provi- 
dentially presented itself in the person of 
Mr. Jefferson Hogg, who, happening to 
be in town about the beginning of 1811, 
had several times called upon Stockdale 
on Shelley's business, and at his request 
The absurdity of the insinuation he 
nevertheless did not scruple to make 
seems not to have altogether escaped the 
publisher himself, and must be perfectly 
apparent to us who have had the advan- 
tage of perusing Mr. Hogg's straightfor- 

ward and unaffected account of his Uni- 
versity acquaintance with his illustrious 
friend. In fact, he was then doing for 
Shelley what the University ought to 
have done, and did not. " The use of 
the University of Oxford," remarked an 
Oxonian to Mr. Bagehot, " is that no 
" one can overread himself there. The 
" appetite for indiscriminate know- 
ledge is. repressed. A blight is 
"thrown over the ingenuous mind," 
&c. Mr. Hogg's companionship was 
doing the same thing for Shelley 
in a different way, not quelling his 
friend's thirst for interminable discussion 
by repulsion, but by satiety. The entire 
character of their intimacy is faithfully 
miniatured in the celebrated story of the 
dog that tore Shelley's skirts, whereupon 
the exasperated poet set off to. his 
College for a pistol. "I accompanied 
" him," says Mr. Hogg, " but on the 
' way took occasion to engage him in 
' a metaphysical discussion on the nature 
' of anger, in the course of which he 
'condemned that passion with great 
' vehemence, and could hardly be 
' brought to allow that it could be justi- 
' fiable in any instance." It is needless 
to add that the dog went unpunished; 
and, had the Oxford authorities possessed 
the slightest insight into Shelley's pecu- 
liarities of disposition, and Mr. Hogg's 
merits as a safety-valve, they might 
have preserved an illustrious modern 
ornament of their University. Stock- 
dale, as we have seen, was all anxiety 
to frame a bill of indictment ; and, his 
wife chancing to have relations in the 
part of Buckinghamshire where Mr. 
Hogg had been residing, he availed 
himself of the circumstance to make 
inquiries. In those days Mr. Hogg's 
"Life of Shelley" was not, and the 
world had not learned on his own 
authority that not only " he would not 
"walk across Chancery Lane in the 
"narrowest part to redress all the 
" wrongs of Ireland, past, present, and 
" to come," but, which is even more to 
the purpose, that "he has always been 
"totally ignorant respecting all the 
" varieties of religious dissent." It was 
therefore easier for Mrs. Stockdale to 

Shelley in Pall Mall. 


collect, with incredible celerity, full 
materials for such a representation of 
Shelley's honest but unspeculative friend 
as suited the views of her husband, who 
immediately transmitted the account to 
Sir Timothy. Sir Timothy naturally 
informed his son, who informed Mr. 
Hogg, who immediately visited the de- 
linquent publisher with two most indig- 
nant letters, which that pachydermatous 
personage has very composedly repro- 
duced in his journal exactly as they 
were written. Shelley does not appear 
to have fulfilled his intention of calling 
upon Stockdale in London; but, the 
latter's replies to Mr. Hogg proving enii 
nently unsatisfactory, with his wonted 
chivalry of feeling he addressed him 
the following letter from Oxford : 

"OXFORD, 28$. of January, 1811. 

" SIR, On my arrival at Oxford, my 
friend Mr. Hogg communicated to me 
the letters which passed in consequence 
of your misrepresentations of his cha- 
racter, the abuse of that confidence which 
he invariably reposed in you. I now, 
sir, demand to know whether you mean 
the evasions in your first letter to Mr. 
Hogg, your insulting attempted cool- 
ness in your second, as a means of 
escaping safely from the opprobrium 
naturally attached to so ungentlemanly 
an abuse of confidence (to say nothing 
of misrepresentations) ' as that which 
my father communicated to me, or as a 
denial of the fact of having acted in 
this unprecedented, this scandalous man- 
ner. If the former be your intention, 
I will compassionate your cowardice, 
and my friend, pitying your weakness, 
will take no further notice of your con- 
temptible attempts at calumny. If the 
latter is your intention, I feel it my duty 
to declare, as my veracity and that of 
my father is thereby called in question, 
that I will never be satisfied, despicable 
as I may consider the author of that 
affront, until my friend has an ample 
apology for the injury you have at- 
tempted to do him. I expect an imme- 
diate, and demand a satisfactory letter. 

" Sir, I am, 

" Your obedient humble servant, 


On receiving this, Stockdale wrote 
Sir Timothy a letter, which the baronet, 
like Dr. Folliott, in " Crotchet Castle," 
appears to have considered " deficient in 
" the two great requisites of head and 

"FIELD PLACE, 30< of January, 1811. 
" SIR, I am so surprised at the re- 
ceipt of your letter of this morning, that 
I cannot comprehend the meaning of 
the language you use. I shall be in 
London next week, and will then call 
on you. 

" I am, sir, 
"Your obedient humble servant, 


Sir Timothy did call, and Stockdale 
" gave him such particulars as the 
" urgency of the case required. The 
" consequence was," he continues, with 
touching simplicity, " that all concerned 
became inimical to me." 

Shelley's expulsion took place on the 
25th of March. He immediately came 
to town, and on April llth addressed 
this note to Stockdale : 

" SIR, Will you have the goodness to 
inform me of the number of copies which 
you have sold of ' St. Irvyne 1' Circum- 
stances may occur which will oblige me 
to wish for my accounts suddenly ; per- 
haps you had better make them out. 

" Sir, 
" Your obedient humble servant, 


Stockdale delayed to act upon this 
suggestion ; and, when he at length sent 
in his account, Shelley had quitted 
London. The bill, however, overtook 
him in Radnorshire : 

"SiR, Your letter has at length 
reached me ; the remoteness of my pre- 
sent situation must apologize for my 
apparent neglect. I am sorry to say, 
in answer to your requisition, that the 
state of my finances renders immediate 
payment perfectly impossible. It is my 
intention, at the earliest period in my 
power to do so, to discharge your ac- 


Shelley in Pall Mall. 

count. I am aware of the imprudence of 
publishing a book so ill-digested as ' St. 
Irvyne;' but are there no expectations 
on the profits of its sale ? My studies 
have, since my writing it, been of a 
more serious nature. I am at present 
engaged in completing a series of moral 
and metaphysical essays perhaps their 
copyright would be accepted in lieu of 
part of my debt ? 

" Sir, I have the honour to be, 
" Your very humble servant, 


August 1st, 1811." 

The offer of "moral and metaphysical 
essays" from one in Shelley's circum- 
stances could not well appear very 
inviting, and so the acquaintance of 
author and publisher ended in an unpaid 
bill This account, which cannot have 
been a large one, soon escaped Shelley's 
memory, and, when better tunes arrived, 
Stockdale did nothing to remind him of 
it an unaccountable oversight, unless 
we can suppose him ignorant of the 
circumstances of one whose writings and 
proceedings were provoking so much 
public comment. In spite of his dis- 
appointment, Stockdale, who really 
appears to have been captivated by 
Shelley, and to have been not more 
forcibly impressed by the energy of Ms 
intellect than by the loveliness of his 
character, emphatically expresses "My 
" fullest assurance of his honour and rec- 
" titude, and my conviction that he would 
" vegetate, rather than live, to effect the 
" discharge of every honest claim upon 
" him." In default of having given him 
the opportunity, he endeavours, with full 
success, to extract the largest possible 
amount of self-glorification from his 
subject. Had he but had his own way, 
" What degradation and self-abasement 
" might have been spared to the widowed 
"wife and fatherless orphans, who, per- 
" haps, at last, may be indebted to my brief 
" memoirs for the only ray of respect and 
" hope which may illumine their recollec- 
" tions of a fatherwhen they have attained 

" an age for reflection, and shed a gleam 
"of ghastly light athwart the palpable 
"obscurity of his tomb." It must be 
acknowledged that Stockdale's eloquence, 
like Pandemonium, is rather sublime than 
luminous ; it must ever remain uncertain 
whether the "ghastly light" is supposed 
to be derived from the respect, or the 
hope, or the wife, or the orphans, or the 
" brief memoirs," or any two or more of 
these, or all five at once; and what 
follows about the prayer of a hope of a 
possibility is even more unintelligible. 
But those were days in which men dis- 
paraged the character and genius of 
Shelley as a matter of course, without 
the remotest idea of the ridicule and 
contempt they were meriting at the 
hands of succeeding generations. Only 
six years previously, a writer in the 
Literary Gazette had expressed the dis- 
appointment he had felt, in common 
with all right-minded people, on learning 
that the author of "Queen Mab" pos- 
sessed neither horns, tail, hoofs, or any 
other outward and visible sign of the 
diabolical nature. 1 The progress of 
public opinion respecting Shelley has 
imitated the famous variations of the 
Moniteur on occasion of Napoleon's 
escape from Elba. "The tiger has 
" broken loose, the monster has landed, 
" the traitor is at Grenoble, the enemy at 
"Lyons, Napoleon is at Fontainebleau, 
" the emperor is in Paris ! " Stookdale 
flourished in the tigrine era, when it 
was perfectly natural that he should 
terminate his articles by an invocation 
of " the seven other spirits, more wicked 
than himself" 

1 This will be thought a parable or an extra- 
vaganza, and is, nevertheless, simple, serious, 
literal truth. There is a curious illustration of 
the slight recognition Shelley's writings had 
obtained so late as 1828, in Platen's exquisitely 
classical address to his friend Rumohr, whom 
he invites to visit him at his residence on an 
island in the Gulf of Spezzia, telling him 
that he will see, among other things, the spot 

Wo der Freund 
Jenes Dichters ertranlc, 

without the slightest allusion to Shelley's own 
achievements aa a poet ! 





THE night of Sunday, the twelfth of 
February, in the present year, was what 
sailors call a very dirty night. Heavy 
masses of ^clouds skirted the horizon as 
the sun set ; and, as the night drew on, 
violent gusts of wind swept along, accom- 
panied with snow squalls. It was a dan- 
gerous time for vessels in the Channel, 
and it proved fatal to one at least. 

Before the light broke on Monday 
morning, the thirteenth, the Margate 
lugger, Eclipse, put out to sea to 
cruise around the sands and shoals in 
the neighbourhood of Margate, on the 
look out for any disasters that might 
have occurred during the night. The 
rew soon discovered that a vessel 
was ashore on the Margate Sands, and 
directly made for her. She proved to 
be the Spanish brig Samaritano, of 
one hundred and seventy tons, bound 
from Antwerp to Santander, and laden 
with a valuable and miscellaneous cargo. 
Her crew consisted of Modeste Crispo, 
captain, and eleven men. It seems that 
during a violent squall of snow and 
wind the vessel was driven on the sands 
at about half-past five in the morning ; 
the crew attempted to put off in -the 
ship's boats, but in vain ; the oars were 
broken in the attempt, and the boats 
stove in. 

The lugger, Eclipse, as she was run- 
ning for the brig, spoke a Whitstable 
smack, and borrowed two of her men 
and her boat. They boarded the vessel 
as the tide went down, and hoped to be 
able to get her off at high water. For 
this purpose six Margate boatmen and 
two of the Whitstable men were left on 
board. But, with the rising tide, the 

1 The following narrative is by one who 
had the best local opportunities of being 
accurate, and of receiving accounts of every 
detail of the rescue from the lips of the men 
who were engaged in it. 

gale came on again in all its fury, and 
they soon gave up all hopes of saving 
the vessel. They hoisted their boat on 
board, and all hands began to feel that 
it was no longer a question of saving 
the vessel, but of saving their own lives. 
The sea began to break furiously over 
the wreck, lifting her, and then bumping 
her with crushing force upon the sands. 
Her timbers did not long withstand this 
trial of their strength ; a hole was soon 
knocked in her ; she filled with water, 
and settled down upon the sand. The 
waves began now to break over the deck ; 
the boat was speedily knocked to pieces 
and swept overboard ; the hatches were 
forced up, and some of the cargo floated 
on deck, and was washed away. The 
brig began to roll fearfully as the waves 
one after another crashed over her; and 
the men, fearing that she would be 
forced on her broadside, cut the weather 
rigging of the mainmast, and it was 
speedily swept overboard. All hands 
now sought refuge in the forerigging. 
Nineteen lives had then no other 
hope between them and a terrible 
death than the few shrouds of that 
shaking mast. The wind swept by them 
with hurricane force ; each wave that 
broke upon the vessel sprang up into 
columns of foam, and drenched them to 
the skin ; the air was full of spray and 
sleet, which froze upon them as it fell 
And thus they waited, hour after hour, 
and no help came, until one and all 
despaired of life. 

In the meanwhile, news of the wreck 
had spread like wildfire through Mar- 
gate. In spite of the gale and the 
blinding snow squalls, many struggled 
to the cliff, and with spyglasses tried to 
penetrate the flying scud, or to gain, 
through the breaks in the storm, glimpses 
of the wreck. 

As- soon as they saw the peril the 
crew of the brig were in, the smaller of 
the two Margate life-boats was manned, 
and made to the rescue. But all the 
efforts of her crew were in vain ; the gale 


Hie Eamsgate Life-Boat. 

was furious, and the seas broke over and 
filled the boat. This her gallant crew 
heeded little aj; first, for they had every 
confidence in the powers of the boat to 
ride safely through any storm, her air- 
tight compartments preventing her from 
sinking ; but to their dismay they found 
that she was losing her buoyancy and 
fast becoming unmanageable ; she was 
filling with water, which came up to the 
men's waists. The air-boxes had evi- 
dently filled ; and they remembered, too 
late, that the valves with which each box 
is provided, in order to let out any 
water that may leak in, had in the ex- 
citement of starting been left unscrewed. 
Their boat was then no longer a life- 
boat, and the struggle became one for 
their own safety. Although then within 
a quarter of a mile of the brig, there was 
no help for it ; the boat was unmanage- 
able, and the only chance of life left to 
the boatmen was to run her ashore as 
soon as possible on the nearest part of 
the coast. It was doubtful whether 
they would be able to do even this, and 
it was not until after four hours' battling 
with the sea and gale that they suc- 
ceeded in getting ashore in Westgate 
Bay. There the coast-guard were ready 
to receive them, and did their best to 
revive the exhausted men. As soon as 
it was discovered that the first life-boat 
had become disabled, the big life-boat 
(The Friend of all Nations) was got 
ready. With much trouble it was drag- 
ged round to the other, side of the pier, 
and there launched. Away she started, 
her brave crew doing their utmost to 
battle with the gale, and work their way 
out to the brig ; but all their efforts were 
in vain. The tremendous wind and sea 
overpowered them ; the tiller gave way ; 
and, after a hard struggle, this life-boat 
was driven ashore about a mile from the 

With both their life-boats wrecked, 
the Margate people gave up all hopes of 
saving the crew of the vessel. There 
seemed no hope for it ; they must be 
content to let them perish within their 
sight. But this should not be the 
case until every possible effort had 
been made ; and two luggers, The 

Nelson and The Lively, undaunted by 
the fate of the life-boats, put off to 
the rescue. The fate of one was soon 
settled ; a fearful squall of wind caught 
her before she had got many hundred 
yards clear of the pier, and swept her 
foremast out of her ; and her crew, in 
turn, had to make every possible effort 
to avoid being driven on the shore-rocks 
and wrecked. The Lively was more 
fortunate ; she got to sea, but could not 
cross the sand, or get to the wreck. 
The Margate people began to despair; 
and, when the tidings passed among the 
crowd that the lieutenant of the Mar- 
gate coast-guard had sent an express 
over to Eamsgate for the Raiusgate 
steamer and life-boat, it was thought 
impossible, on the one hand, that they 
could make their way round the North 
Foreland in the teeth of so tremendous 
a gale, or, on the other, that the ship 
could hold together, or the crew live, 
exposed as they were in the rigging, 
during the time it would of necessity 
take for the steamer and boat to get to 

We now change the scene to Rams- 



FROM an early hour on the Monday 
morning, groups of boatmen had as- 
sembled on the pier at Eamsgate, occa- 
sionally joined by some of the most hardy 
of the townspeople, or by a stray visitor, 
attracted out by the wild scene that the 
storm presented. In the intervals be- 
tween the snow squalls, they could 
faintly discern a vessel or two in the 
distance running before the gale ; and 
they were all keenly on the look out 
for signals of distress, that they might 
put off to the rescue. But no such 
signal was given. Every now and then, 
as the wind boomed by, some landsman 
thought it the report of a gun from one 
or other of the three light-vessels 
which guard the dangerous Goodwin 
Sands; but the boatmen shook their 

The Eamsgate Life-Boat. 


heads, and those who with spyglasses 
kept a look-out in the direction of the 
light-vessels confirmed them in their 

About nine o'clock, tidings came that 
a brig was ashore on the Woolpack 
Sands, off Margate. It was of course 
concluded that the two Margate life- 
boats would go to the rescue ; and, 
although there was much anxiety and 
excitement as to the result of the 
attempt the Margate boatmen would 
make, no one had the least idea that 
the services of the Eamsgate boat would 
be required. Thus time passed on, 
until twelve o'clock, when most of the 
men went away to dinner, leaving a few 
only on watch. Shortly after twelve, the 
coast-guard man from Margate hastened 
breathless to the pier and to the har- 
bour-master's office, saying, in answer 
to eager inquiries, as he hurried on, 
that the two Margate life-boats had been 
wrecked, and that the Ramsgate boat 
was wanted. The harbour-master im- 
mediately gave the order to man the 
life-boat. No sooner had the words 
passed his lips, than the sailors who 
had crowded around the door of the 
office in expectation of the order, 
rushed away to the boat. First come, 
first in ; not a moment's hesitation, 
not a thought of farther clothing ! The 
news soon spread ; each boatman as he 
heard it made a hasty snatch at his 
south-wester cap and bag of waterproof 
overalls, and raced down to the boat; 
and for some time boatman after boat- 
man was to be seen rushing down the 
pier, hoping to find a place still vacant 
for him. If the race had been to 
save their own lives, instead of to risk 
them, it could scarcely have been more 
hotly contested. Some of those who had 
won the race, and were in the boat, 
were ill-prepared with clothing for the 
hardships they would have to endure ; 
for, if they had not their things at hand, 
they would not delay a moment to 
obtain them, fearing that the crew 
might be made up before they got 
there. These were supplied by the 
generosity of their friends, who had 
come down better prepared, although 

too late for the enterprise ; the cork' 
jackets were thrown into the boat, and 
put on by the men. The powerful 
steam-tug, Aid, belonging to the har- 
bour, and which has her steam up 
night and day ready for any emergency 
that may arise, got her steam to full 
power, and, with her brave and skilful 
master, Daniel Eeading, in command, 
took the boat in tow, and made her 
way out of the harbour. James Hogben, 
who, with Eeading, has been in many 
a wild scene of danger, commanded the 
life-boat. It was nearly low water at 
the time, but the force of the gale was 
such that a good deal of spray was 
dashing over the pier, and the snow, 
which was falling in blinding squalls, 
had drifted and eddied in every pro- 
tected nook and corner, making it hard 
work for the excited crowd who had 
assembled to see the life-boat start, to 
battle their way through the drifts and 
against the wind, snow and foam, to 
the head of the pier. There at last they 
assembled, and many a heart failed as 
they saw the steamer and boat clear the 
pier and encounter the first rush of the 
wind and sea outside. " She seemed to go 
out under water," said one old fellow ; 
"I wouldn't have gone in her for the 
universe ;" and those who did not know 
the heroism that such scenes called 
forth in the breasts of our watermen, 
could not help wondering somewhat at 
the eagerness that had been displayed 
to get a place in the boat and this 
although they knew that the two 
Margate life-boats had been already 
wrecked in the attempt to get the short 
distance which separated Margate from 
the wreck, while they would have to 
battle their way through the gale for 
ten or twelve miles before they could 
get even in sight of the vessel. It says 
nothing against the daring or skill of 
the Margate boatmen, or the efficiency 
of their boats that they failed. In such 
a gale success was almost impossible 
without the aid of steam. With it 
they would probably have succeeded ; 
without it the Eamsgate boat would 
certainly have failed. 

As soon as the steamer and boat got 


The Ramsgate Life-Boat. 

clear of the pier they felt the' full force 
of the storm, and it seemed almost 
doubtful whether they could make any 
progress against it. Getting out of the 
force of the tide as it swept round the 
pier, they began to move ahead, and 
were soon ploughing their way through 
a perfect sea of foam. The steamer, 
with engines working full power, plunged 
along ; every wave, as it broke over her 
bows, flying up, sent its spray mast bigh, 
and deluged the deck with a tide of 
water, which, as it swept aft, gave the 
men on board enough to do to hold on. 
The life-boat was towing astern, with 
fifty fathom of five-inch hawser an 
enormously strong rope, about the thick- 
ness of a man's wrist. Her crew already 
experienced the dangers and discomforts 
they were ready to submit to without a 
murmur, perhaps for many hours, in 
their effort to save life. It would be 
hard to give a description to enable one 
to realize their position in the boat. 
The use of a life-boat is, that it will 
live where other boats would of neces- 
sity founder; they are made for, and 
generally only used on, occasions of 
extreme danger and peril, for terrible 
storms and wild seas. The water flows 
in the boat and over it, and it still floats. 
Some huge rolling wave will break over 
it and for a moment bury it, but it rises 
in its buoyancy, and shakes itself free ; 
beaten down on its broadside by the 
waves and wind, it rises on its keel 
again, and defies them to do their worst. 
Such was the noble boat of which we 
are writing. The waves that broke over 
her drenched and deluged, and did 
everything but drown, her. The men, 
from the moment of their clearing the 
pier to that of their return, were up to 
their knees in water. They bent forward 
as much as they could, each with a firm 
hold upon the boat. The spray and 
waves beat~and broke upon their backs ; 
and, although it could not penetrate 
their waterproof clothing, it chilled them 
to the bone for, as it fell, it froze. So 
bitter was the cold that their very mit- 
tens were frozen to their hands. After 
a tremendous struggle, the steamer 
seemed to be making head against the 

storm ; they were well clear of the pier, 
settled to their work, and getting on 
gallantly. They passed through the cud 
channel, and had passed the black and 
white buoys, so well known to Ranis- 
gate visitors, when a fearful sea came 
heading towards them. It met and broke 
over the steamer, buried her in foam, 
and swept along. The life-boat rose to 
it, and then, as she felt the strain on the 
rope, plunged into it stem on, and was 
for a moment nearly buried. The men 
were almost washed out of her ; but at 
that moment the. tow-rope gave way to 
the tremendous strain ; the boat, lifted 
with a jerk, was flung round by the 
force of i the wave, and for a moment 
seemed at the mercy of the sea which 
broke over her amidships. " Oars out ! " 
was the cry as soon as the men had 
got their breath. They laboured and 
laboured to get the boat's head to the 
wind, but in vain ; the force of the gale 
was too much for them, and, in spite of 
all their efforts, they drifted fast to the 
Broke Shoal, over which the sea was 
beating heavily ; but the steamer, which 
throughout was handled most admirably, 
both as regards skill and bravery, was 
' put round as swiftly as possible, and very 
cleverly brought within a yard or two 
to windward of the boat as she lay 
athwart the sea. They threw a hawling- 
line on board, to which was attached a 
bran-new hawser, and again took the 
boat in tow. 

The tide was still flowing, and, as it 
rose, the wind came up in heavier and 
heavier gusts, bringing with it a blind- 
ing snow and sleet, which, with the 
foam, flew through the boat, still freez- 
ing as it fell, till the men looked, as 
one remarked at the time, like a body 
of ice. They could not look to wind- 
ward for the drifting snow and heavy seas 
continually running over them ; but not 
one heart failed, not one repented of 
winning the race to the life-boat. Off 
Broadstairs they suddenly felt the way 
of the boat stop. "The rope broken 
again," was the first thought of all ; but, 
on looking round, as they were then 
enabled to do, the boat being no longer 
forced through the seas, they discovered 

The Ramsgate Life-Boat 


to their utter dismay that the steamer 
had stopped. They thought that her 
machinery had broken down, and at 
once despaired of saving the lives of 
the shipwrecked ; but soon they dis- 
covered, to their joy, that the steamer 
had merely stopped to let out more 
cable, fearful lest it might break again, 
as they fought their way round the 
North Foreland. It was another hour's 
struggle before they reached the North 
Foreland. There the sea was running 
tremendously high. The gale was still 
increasing ; the snow, and sleet, and 
spray rushed by with hurricane speed. 
Although it was only the early after- 
noon, the air was so darkened with 
the storm, that it seemed a dull twi- 
light. The captain of the boat was 
steering ; he peered out between his 
coat-collar and cap, but looked in vain 
for the steamer. He knew that she 
was all right, for the rope kept tight; 
but many times, although she was only 
one hundred yards ahead, he could see 
nothing of her. Still less able were the 
men on board the steamboat to see the 
life-boat. Often did they anxiously 
look astern and watch for a break in 
the drift and scud to see that she was 
all right ; for, although they still felt 
the strain upon the rope, she might be 
towing along bottom up, or with every 
man washed out of her. for anything 
they could tell. Several times the fear 
that the life-boat was gone came over 
the master of the steamer. Still steamer 
and boat battled stoutly and success- 
fully against the storm. 

As soon as they were round the 
North Foreland, the snow squall cleared, 
and they sighted Margate, all anxiously 
looking for the wreck ; but nothing of 
her was to be seen. They saw a lugger 
riding just clear of the pier, with fore- 
mast gone, and anchor down, to prevent 
her being driven ashore by the gale. 
They next sighted the Margate life-boat, 
abandoned and washed ashore, in West- 
gate Bay, looking a complete wreck, the 
waves breaking over her. A little beyond 
this, they caught sight ef the second 
life-boat, also ashore ; and then they 
learnt to realize to the full the gallant 

efforts that had been made to save the 
shipwrecked, and the destruction that 
had been wrought, as effort after effort 
had' been overcome by the fury of the 

But where was the wreck? They 
could see nothing of her : had she been 
beaten to pieces, all lives lost, and were 
they too late 1 A heavy mass of cloud 
and snow-storm rolled on to windward 
of them, in the direction of the Margate 
sands, and they could not make out any 
signs of the wreck there. There was 
just a chance that it was the Woolpack 
Sand that she was on. They thought it 
the more likely, as the first intelligence 
which came of the wreck declared that 
such was the case ; and accordingly they 
determined to make for the Woolpack 
Sand, which was about three miles farther 
on. They had scarcely decided upon 
this, when, most providentially, there 
was a break s in the drift of snow to 
windward, and they suddenly caught 
sight of the wreck. But for this sudden 
clearance in the storm they would have 
proceeded on, and, before they could 
have found out their mistake and got 
back, every soul must have perished. 
The master of the steamboat made out 
the flag of distress flying in the rigging, 
the ensign union downwards; she was 
doubtless the vessel they were in search 
of. But still it was a question how 
they could get to her, as she was on the 
other side of the sand. To tow the 
boat round the sand would be a long 
job in the face of such a gale ; and for 
the boat to make across the sand seemed 
almost impossible, so tremendous was 
the sea which was running over it. 
Nevertheless, there was no hesitation 
on the part of the life-boat crew. It 
seemed a forlorn hope, a rushing upon 
destruction, to attempt to sail through 
such a surf and sea ; but to go round 
the sands would occasion a delay which 
they could not bear to think of. Without 
hesitation, then, they cast off the tow- 
rope, and were about setting sail, when 
they found that the tide was running so 
furiously that it would be necessary for 
them to be towed at least three miles to 
the eastward, before they would be suf- 


The Ramsgate Life-Boat. 

ficiently far to windward to fetch the 
wreck. It was a hard struggle to get 
the tow-rope on board again, and a 
heavy disappointment to all to find 
that an hour or so more of their 
precious time must be consumed before 
they could get to the Tescue of their 
perishing brother seamen; but there 
was no help for it; and away they 
went again in tow of the steamer. 
The snow squall came on, and they 
lost sight of the vessel ; but all were 
anxiously on the look out ; and now 
and then in a lift of the squall they 
could catch a glimpse of her. They 
could see that she was almost buried 
in the sea, which broke over her in 
great clouds of foam; and again many 
and weary were the doubts and specu- 
lations as to whether or no any one on 
board the wreck could still be alive. 

For twenty minutes or so they battled 
against the wind and tide. The gale, 
which had been steadily increasing since 
the morning, came on heavier than ever; 
and the sea was running so furiously, 
that even the new rope with which the 
boat was being towed could not resist 
the increasing strain, and suddenly 
parted with a tremendous jerk. There 
was no thought of picking up the cable 
again. They could stand no farther delay, 
and one and all rejoiced to hear the cap- 
tain give orders to set the sail. 



HARDER still the gale, and the rush 
of the sea, and the blinding snow the 
storm was at its height. As they headed 
for the sands, a darkness as of night 
seemed to settle down upon them ; they 
could scarcely see each other ; but on 
through the raging sea they drove the 
gallant boat. As they approached the 
shallow water, the high part of the 
sand, where the heaviest sea was break- 
ing, they could see spreading itself be- 
fore them, standing out in the gloom, a 
barrier-wall of foam ; for, as the waves 
broke on the sand, and clashed together 

in their recoil, they mounted up in 
columns of foam, which was caught by 
the wind, and carried away in white 
streaming clouds of spray, and the fear- 
ful roar of the beating waves could be 
heard above the gale. But straight for 
the breakers they made. No wavering, 
no hesitation ; not a heart failed ! 

The boat, although under only her 
double-reefed foresail and niizen as 
little sail as she could possibly carry 
was driven on by the hurricane force of 
the wind. On through the outer range 
of breakers she plunged, and then came 
indeed a struggle for life. The waves no 
longer rolled on in foaming ranks, but 
leapt, and clashed, and battled together 
"in a raging boil of sea. They broke 
over the boat ; the surf poured in first 
on one side and then on the other ; some 
waves rushed over the boat, threatening 
to sweep every man out of her. " Look 
out, my men ! hold on ! hold on !" was 
the cry when this happened ; and each 
man threw himself down with his breast 
on the thwart, and, with both arms 
clasped round it, hugged it, and held to 
it against the tear and wrestle of the 
wave, while the rush of water poured 
over their backs and heads and buried 
them in its flood. Down for a moment 
boat and men all -seemed to sink ; but 
the splendid boat rose in her buoyancy 
and freed herself of the water which 
had for a moment buried her, and her 
crew breathed again. A cry of triumph 
arose from them "All right! all right! 
now she goes through it ; hold on, my 
boys !" A moment's lull ; she glided 
on the crest of a huge wave, or only 
smaller ones tried their strength against 
her ; then the monster fellows came 
heading on ; again the warning cry 
was given, "Look out! hold on, hold 
on ! " Thus, until they got clear of 
the sands, the fearful struggle was often 
repeated. But at last it ended, and 
they got into deep water, leaving the 
breakers behind them. They had then 
only the huge rolling waves to contend 
with, and they seemed but as little in 
comparison to the broken water they 
had just passed through and escaped 
from. The boat was put before the 

The Ramsgate Life-Boat. 


wind, and every man was on the look 
out for the wreck. For a time it re- 
mained so thick that there was no 
chance of finding her, when again, the 
second time, a sudden break in the storm 
evealed her. She was about half a mile 
to leeward. They shifted their foresail 
with some difficulty, and again made in 
for the sands to the vessel. The appear- 
ance of the wreck made even the boat- 
men shudder. She had settled down 
by the stern upon the sands, the sea 
making a clear breach over her. The 
starboard-bow was the only part of the 
hull visible ; the mainmast was gone ; 
the foresail and foretopsail blown adrift ; 
and great columns of foam were mount- 
ing up, flying over her foremast and 
bow. They saw a Margate lugger lying 
at anchor, just clear of the sand, and 
made close to her. As they shot by 
they could just make out through the 
roar of the storm a hail " Eight of our 
men on board .;" and on they flew into 
a sea which would in a moment have 
swamped the lugger, noble boat though 
she was. Approaching the wreck, it 
was with terrible anxiety they strained 
their sight, trying to discover whether 
there were still any men left in the 
tangled mass of rigging, over which the 
sea was breaking so furiously. By de- 
grees they made them out. " I see one, 
two, three ! The rigging is full of 
them !" was the cry ; and, with a cheer 
of triumph at being still in time, they 
settled to their work. 

The wreck of the mainmast, and the 
tremendous wash of the sea over the 
vessel, prevented their going to the lee 
of the wreck. This increased the danger 
tenfold, as the result proved. About 
forty yards from the wreck, they low- 
ered their sails, and cast the anchor 
over the side. The moment for which 
the boat had so gallantly battled for 
four hours, and the shipwrecked 
waited, in almost despair, for eight, 
had at last arrived. No shouting, no 
whisper beyond the necessary orders ; 
the suspense and risk are too terrible ! 
Yard by yard the cable is cautiously 
payed out, and the great rolling seas 
are allowed to carry the boat little by 

little to the vessel. The waves break over 
them for a moment bury the boat ; and 
then, as they break upon the vessel, the 
spray hides the men, lashed to the rigging, 
from their sight. They hoist up the sail a 
little to help the boat sheer, and soon a 
huge wave lifts them ; they let out a 
yard or two more cable by the run, and 
she is alongside the wreck ! With a cry, 
three men jump from the rigging, and 
are saved. The next instant they see a 
huge wave rolling towards them, and 
might and main, hand over hand, all 
haul in the cable, and draw the boat 
away from the wreck, and thus escape 
being washed against her, and perhaps 
over her, to certain destruction. Again 
they watch their chance and get along- 
side. This time they manage to remain a 
little longer than before ; and, one after 
another, thirteen of the shipwrecked leap 
from the rigging to the boat ; and away 
she is again. ' ' Are they all sa ved ? " ]S"o'; 
three of the Spaniards are still left in 
the rigging ; they seem almost dead, and 
can scarcely unlash themselves from 
the shrouds, and crawl down, ready for 
the return of the boat. This time the 
peril is greater than ever. They have to 
go quite close to the vessel, for the men 
are too weak to leap ; they must remain 
longer, for the men have to be lifted on 
board ; but as before, coolly and determi- 
nately they go to their work ; the cable 
is veered out, the sail manreuvred to 
make the boat sheer, and again she is 
alongside ; the men are grasped by their 
clothes, and dragged into the boat. 
The last in the rigging is the cabin-boy ; 
he seems entangled in the shrouds. (The 
poor little fellow had a canvas bag of 
trinkets and things he was taking home ; 
it had caught in the rigging ; and his 
cold, half-dead hands could not free 
it.) A strong hand grasps him, and 
tears him down into the boat ; for 
a moment's delay may be death to 
all. A tremendous wave rushes on 
them ; hold, anchor ! hold, cable ! give 
but a yard, and all are lost ! The 
boat lifts, is washed into the fore- 
rigging ; the sea passes ; and she settles 
down again upon an even keel ! If 
one stray rope of all the tangled rig- 


The Ramsgate Life-Boat. 

ging of the vessel had caught the 
boat, she would have capsized, and 
every man in her have been in a mo- 
ment shaken out into the sea. The 
boat is very crowded ; no fewer than 
thirty-two men now form her precious 
freight. They haul in cable and draw up 
to the anchor as quickly as they . can, 
to get clear of the wreck ; an- anxious 
time it is. At last they are pretty clear, 
and hoist the sail to draw still farther 
away. There is no thought of getting th e 
anchor up in such a gale and sea. " She 
draws away," cries the captain; "pay 
out the cable ; stand by to cut it ; pags 
the hatchet forward ; cut the cable ; 
quick, my men, quick !" There is a mo- 
ment's delay. A sailor takes out his 
knife, and begins gashing away at the 
thick rope. Already one strand out of the 
three is severed, when a fearful gust of 
wind rushes by ; a crash is heard, and 
the mast and sail are blown clean out of 
the boat. Never was a moment of greater 
peril. Away with the rush of the wave 
the boat is again carried straight for the 
fatal wreck ; the cable is payed out, and 
is slack ; they haul it in as fast as they 
can ; but on they go swiftly, apparently 
to certain destruction. Let them hit the 
wreck full, and the next wave must 
wash them over it, and all perish ; let 
them but touch it, and the risk is fear- 
ful. On they are carried ; the stern of 
the boat just grazes the bow of the ship. 
Some of the crew are ready for a spring 
into the bowsprit, to prolong their lives 
a few minutes. Mercifully, the cable 
at that moment taughtens : another 
yard or two and the boat must have 
been dashed to pieces. Might and 
main they continue to haul in the 
cable, and again draw away from the 
wreck ; but they do it with a terrible 
dread, for they remember the cut 
strand of the rope. Will the remaining 
two strands hold ? The strain is fearful ; 
each time the boat lifts on a wave, the 
cable tightens and jerks, and they think 
it breaking ; but it still holds, and a 
thrill of joy passes through the hearts 
of all as they hear that the cut part is in. 
The position is still one of extreme 
peril. The mast and sail have been drag- 

ging over the side all this time ; with 
much difficulty they get them on board. 
The mast had broke short off, about 
three feet from the heel. They chop a 
new heel to it, and rig it up again 
as speedily as possible ; but it takes long 
to do so. The boat is lying in the trough 
of the sea, the waves breaking over her ; 
the gale blowing as hard as ever ; the 
boat so crowded that they can scarcely 
move ; the Spaniards clinging to each 
other, the terrors of death not having yet 
passed away from them. They know 
nothing of the properties of the life-boat, 
and cannot believe that it will live 
long in such a sea. As the huge waves 
break over the boat and fill it, they 
imagine that it is going to founder ; 
and, besides this, for nearly four hours 
had they been lashed to the rigging of 
their vessel, till the life was nearly 
beaten and frozen out of them by the 
waves and bitter wind. One of them, 
seeing a life-belt lying under a thwart, 
which one of the crew had thrown 
off in the hurry of his work, picked it 
up and sat upon it, by way of making 
himself doubly safe. But the work 
went on ; at last the mast is fitted and 
raised. No unnecessary word is spoken 
all this time, for the life and death 
struggle is not yet over, nor can be 
until they are well away from the 
neighbourhood of the wreck; but, as 
they hoist the sail, the boat gradually 
draws away, the cable is again payed 
out little by little, and, as soon as they 
are well clear of the vessel, they cut it, 
and away they go. 

The terrible suspense when each 
moment was* a moment of fearful risk 
from the time they let go their anchor to 
the time they were clear of the vessel was 
over. It had lasted nearly an hour. The 
men could now breathe freely; their faces 
brightened; and from one and all there 
arose, spontaneously, a pealing cheer. 
They were no longer face to face with 
death, and joyfully and thankfully they 
sailed away from the breakers, the sands, 
and the wreck. The gale was still at 
its height, but the peril they were in 
then seemed as nothing compared to 
that which they had left behind. In 

The Ramsgate Life-Boat. 


the great reaction of feeling, the freezing 
cold and sleet, the driving foam and 
sea were all forgotten: and they felt as 
light-hearted as if they were out on a 
pleasant summer's cruise. They could 
at last look around and see whom they 
had in the boat Of the saved were 
eleven Spaniards the master of the 
brig, the mate, eight seamen and a boy ; 
six Margate boatmen, "and two Whit- 
stable fishermen. They then proceeded 
in search of the steamer, which, after 
casting the life-boat adrift, had made for 
shelter to the back of the Hook Sand, 
not far from the Eeculvers, and there 
waited, her crew anxiously on the look 
out for the return of the life-boat. As 
they were making for the steamer, the 
lugger, Eclipse, caine in chase, to hear 
whether all hands, and especially her 
men, had been saved. They welcomed 
the glad tidings with three cheers for 
the life-boat crew. Soon after, the 
Whitstable smack stood towards them 
on the same errand, and, after speaking 
them, tacked in for the land. The 
night was coming on apace. It was not 
until they had run three or four miles 
that they sighted the steamer ; and, when 
they got alongside it, was a difficult mat- 
ter to get the saved crew on board. The 
gale was as hard as ever, and 'the steamer 
rolled heavily ; the men had almost to 
be lifted on board as opportunities oc- 
curred ; and one poor fellow was so 
thoroughly exhausted that they had to 
haul him into the steamer with a rope. 

Again the boat was taken in tow, 
almost all her crew remaining in her ; 
and they commenced their return home. 
The night was very dark, although clear; 
the sea and gale had lost none of their force ; 
and, until they got well round the North 
Foreland, the struggle to get back was 
just as hard as it had been to get there. 
Once round the Foreland, the wind was 
well aft, and they made easier way ; light 
after light opened to them ; Kingsgate, 
Broadstairs, were passed ; and, at last, 
the Eamsgate pier-head light shone 
forth its welcome, and they began to 
feel that their work was nearly over. 

A telegram had been sent from Mar- 
gate, in the afternoon, stating that the 

Eamsgate life-boat had been seen to 
save the crew ; but nothing more had 
been heard, and the suspense of the 
boatmen at Ramsgate, as they waited 
for the life-boat's return, was terrible. 
Few hoped to see them again, and, as 
hour after hour passed Avithout tidings, 
they were almost given up. During 
the whole of the afternoon and evening, 
anxious eyes were constantly on the 
watch for the first signs of the boat's 
coming round the head of the cliff. As 
the tide went down, and the sea broke 
less heavily over the pier, the men could 
venture farther along it, until, by the 
time of the boat's return, they were 
enabled to assemble at the end of the 
pier. When the steamer was first seen 
with the life-boat in tow, the lookers out 
shouted for very joy ; and, as they en- 
tered the harbour, and hailed, "AH 
saved ! " cheer after cheer for the life- 
boat's crew broke from the crowd. 

The Spaniards had somewhat recovered 
from their exhaustion under the care of 
the steamboat crew, and were farther 
well cared for and supplied with clothes 
by the orders of the Spanish Consul; 
and the hardy English boatmen did 
not take long to recover their exposure 
and fatigues, fearful as they had been. 
The captain of the Spaniard, in speaking 
of the rescue, was almost overcome by 
Ids feelings of gratitude and wonder. 
He had quite made up his mind to 
death, believing that no boat could by 
any possibility come to their rescue in 
such a fearful sea. He took with him 
to Spain, to show to the Spanish govern- 
ment, a painting of the rescue, executed 
by Mr. Ifold, of Eamsgate. 

There is an interest even in reading 
the names of those (however unknown 
to us) who have done gallant deeds ; we 
give therefore the names of the crew of 
the life-boat, and of the steamer. Of 
the life-boat : James Hogben, captain ; 
Charles Meader, Thomas Tucker, Philip 
Goodchild, Edward Stock, William 
Penny, William Priestley, George Hog- 
ben, William Solly, George Forwood, 
John Stock, Eobert Solly. Of the 
steam-tug : Daniel Eeading, J. Simpson, 
W. Wharrier, T. ^Nichols, J. Denton, 


The Sleep of the Hyacinth. 

J. Freeman, T. Larkins, "W. Penman, 
W. Matson, W. Solly. Other fearful 
scenes have most of these men, espe- 
cially the captains of the life-boat and 
steam-tug, passed through in their efforts 
to save life ; one so terrible that two out 
of the crew of the life-boat never reco- 
vered the shock given to their nerves. 
One died a few months after the event, 
and the other to this day is ailing, and 
subject to fits. Of the splendid life- 
boat too much cannot be said ; no fewer 
than eighty-eight lives have been saved 
by her during the last five years. De- 
signed and built by J. Beeching and 

Sons, boat-builders, &c., of Yarmouth, 
she won the Northumberland prize of 
one hundred guineas in a competition 
of two hundred and eighty boats. Each 
time the men go out, their confidence 
in her increases, and they are now 
ready to dare anything in the Northum- 
berland prize life-boat. It is pleasing 
to be able to add, by way of postscript, 
that the Board of Control has presented 
each man engaged in this rescue with a 
medal and 21., and that the Spanish 
Government has also gratefully acknow- 
ledged the heroism of the men, and sent 
to each a medal and 31. 


(Concluded from No. 6.) 


There is mourning in the land of Pharaoh 
over the dead Princess, whose swathing and 
entombment, Egyptian-wise, with the hya- 
cinth-bulb in her hand, are described the 
description leading to a glimpse of the Royal 
Necropolis, or Burying-place, with its rows of 
the dead who had preceded her, and, then, by 
transition, to an address of the Mummy to' its 
departed soul. 

Woe was in the land of Egypt, . 

Grief was on the monarch's throne ; 
Aged Pharaoh, sad and childless, 

Uttered sob and uttered groan ; 
Death had won his dearest treasure, 

Desolate he stood alone. 
From his hand he thrust the sceptre, 

From his brow he plucked the crown; 
Royal robe and priestly vesture, 

Warrior sword, he flung them down; 
Sackcloth round his loins was girt, 

Ashes on his head were strown. 

Woe was in the land of Egypt, 
On the loftiest and the least ; 

Woe on king and woe on people, 

Bond and freeman, prince and priest ; 

Day and night they uttered wailings, 
Lamentations never ceased. 

At length the king rose, and he lifted 

his head, 
And he spake but three words, "Bury 

my dead." 
Her delicate body with water they 

And they combed the long locks of 

her hair, 
And her marble-like limbs with linen 

they swathed, 
Imbued with rich spices, and unguents 


To keep off the breath of the envious 

They folded her hands for their age- 
long prayer ; 
They laid on her breast, 
For its age-long rest, 
The bulb of the hyacinth root ; 
And, with pious intent and reverend 

They wound from the head to the 

The long linen bandages, crossing them 

Till each motionless limb in its vestment 

was bound, 

And she lay folded up, 
Like a flower in its cup 

The Sleep of the Hyacinth. 


Which has never awakened, and knows 

but repose, 
Like the bud never blown of the sleeping 

white rose. 

So they embalmed that lovely form, 
And made that queenly face immortal, 
Shutting from his prey the worm, 
And barring close the admitting 

portal ; 
And Decay could not enter. 

The sycamore tree in the garden fell, 
She would love it they thought in 

,the tomb ; 

They hollowed it out,' a gloomy deep cell, 
A dark, dreary lodge where no queen 

would dwell ; 
But she made no complaint, it suited 

her well ; 
There was small enough space, and 

yet wide enough room ; 
The dead are content with a narrow 


And they are not afraid of the gloom. 
* * * * 

There were no tossing arms 

And no aching heads ; 
All their pillows were soft 

And downy their beds. 
None weary and wakeful lay 

Counting each hour, 
Missing the drowsy juice 

Wrung from the poppy flower. 
None looked for the light ; 

None longed for, the day, 
Grew tired of their couches, 

Or wished them away. 

The babe lay hushed to a calmer rest 
Than ever mother's loving breast 
Or fondling arms in life had given, 
Or lullaby that rose to heaven 
And brought the angels down to guard 

the cradle-nest. 
The husband and the wife, 
As once in life, 
Slept side by side, 
Undreaming of the cares the morning 

might betide. 
The bridegroom and the bride 

Their fill of love might take ; 
None kept the lovers now apart ; 

Yet neither to the other spake, 

No. 8. VOL. n. 

And heart leapt not to heart : 
Death had wooed both, 

And come in room 
To him of loving bride, 

To her of fond bridegroom; 
Yet they slept sweetly 

With closed eyes, 

And knew not Death had cheated 

And won the prize. 

None knelt to the king, yet none were 

ashamed ; 
None prayed unto God, yet no one 

blamed ; 
None weighed out silver or counted 


Nothing was bought, and nothing sold ; 
None would give, and none would take, 
No one answered, and no one spake. 
There were crowds on crowds, and yet 

no din, 

Sinner on sinner, and yet no sin ; 
Poverty was not, nor any wealth, 
None knew sickness, and none knew 

health ; 

None felt blindness, and none saw light, 
There were millions of eyes and yet no 

sight ; 

Millions of ears and yet no hearing, 
Millions of hearts, and yet no fearing ; 
None knew joy, and none knew sorrow; 
Yesterday was the same as to-day and 


None felt hunger, none felt thirst, 
No one blessed, and no one cursed, 
None wasted the hours, and none saved 


None did any good, or committed crime ; 
Grief and woe, and guilt and care, 
Fiery passion and sullen despair, 
Were all unknown and unthought of 

there : 

Joy and love, and peace and bliss, 
Holy affection and kindly kiss, 
Were strangers there to all, I wiss. 
The soldier laid aside his spear, 

And was a man of peace ; 
The slave forgot to fear, 

And sighed not for release ; 
The widow dried her tear 

And thought not of her lord's decease. 
The subtle brain 

Of the c\irious priest, 


The Sleep of the Hyacinth. 

To strive and strain 

With thought had ceased. 
Lips that like angels' sung 

Moved not the air, 
And the eloquent tongue 

Lay dumb in its lair, 
Behind the closed gate of the teeth : 

The flute-like throat 

Uttered no note, 

And the bosom swelled not with the 

No mourning nor crying, 

No sobbing nor sighing, 

None weeping over the dead or the 

Were heard on the way : 

No singing, no laughing, 

No joying, no daffing, 

No reveller's glee when carousing and 


Nor children at play : 
None shouted, none whispered ; there 

rose not a hum 

In that great city of the deaf and dumb. 
They left her there among the rows 
Of royal dead to find repose, 
Where Silence with her soundless wings 
Hovers o'er sleeping queens and kings, 

And each in dumbness steeps : 
And Darkness with her sightless eye, 
Grazes down through a starless sky, 

And all from waking keeps. 

* * * * 

Soul, I loved thee ; 

Thou wert beautiful : 
Soul, I served thee ; 

I was dutiful : 

We had been so long together, 
In the fair and the foul weather ; 
We had known such joys and tears 
That my love grew with the years. 

I was not an enemy 

Unto thy salvation ; 
If I sinned, I sinred with thee, 

Yielding to temptation ; 
Thou wert wiser, 

Thou wert stronger ; 
I was never thy despiser ; 

Wilfully I was no wronger 
Wronging thee I wronged myself. 

I am but a broken cage, 
And the eagle's fled ; 

Think you he will quell his rage, 

Bend his high ,and haughty head, 
Leave the air at one fell swoop, 
And with folded pinions stoop 
Underneath these bars ; to droop 
Once again, with sullen eye 
Gazing at the far-off sky ? 
He has gone his way, and I 
Grudge him not his liberty. 

Does the wanton butterfly 
Long for her au.relia sleep, 

Sicken of the sunlit sky, 

Shrivel up her wings and creep 

From the untasted rose's chalice, 

Back into her chrysalis ? 

Does she on the wing deplore 

She can be a worm no more 1 

The melodious, happy bee, 

Will she backward ring her bell, 

Grieving for a life so free, 

Wishing back the narrow cell 

Where a cloistered nun she lay, 

Knowing not the night from day 1 

Lithe and subtle serpents turning 

Wheresoe'er they will, 
Are they full of sad repining 

That they cannot now be still, 
Coiled in the maternal prison 
Out of which they have arisen ? 

Earth to earth, and dust to dust, 
Ashes unto ashes must ; 

Death precedeth birth. 
Infant gladness 
Ends in madness, 
And from blackest roots of sadness 

Rise the brightest flowers of mirth. 

I am but the quiver, useless 

When the bolts are shot ; 
But the dangling mocking scabbard 

Where the sword is not. 
I am like a shattered bark 

Flung high up upon the shore ; 
Gone are streamers, sails, and mast, 

Steering helm and labouring oar. 
Eiver-joys, ye all are past; 

I shall breast the Nile no more. 

I was once a lamp of life, 
Shining in upon the soul ; 

But I was a lamp of clay : 
Death and I had bitter strife ; 

The Sleep of the Hyacinth. 


He hath pierced the golden bowl, 

And he sent my soul astray. 
It is an immortal thing, 
Far beyond his venomed sting, 
But my life was his to win, 

And I must the forfeit pay ; 
So he poured the precious oil 
Of my very life away. 

If my soul should seek for me, 

It would find me dark ; 
In my leaking cup would see 

Death the quencher's mark : 
Angels could not light in me 

Now the feeblest spark : 
I am broken, empty, cold ; 
Oil of life I could not hold. 

Soul and body cannot mate, 

Unless Life doth join their hands ; 
And the fell divorcer sweareth 
By the royal crown he weareth 
And the awful sword he beareth, 

That a king's are his commands. 
" Soul and body, Life shall never, 
" When my smiting sword doth sever, 

" Join again in wedlock's bands." 

I was once the trusted casket 
Of a priceless, wondrous gem : 
With closed lid 
I kept it hid, 
Till God wanted 
It for his own diadem. 
Unto Death He gave the key, 

But he stayed not to unlock it ; 
If the jewel were but free, 
He, the fierce one, what cared he 
For the casket, though he broke it? 

Mortal throes and ciuel pangs 

Tore me open with their fangs, 
And God took the gem to set : 

But to put his mark on me 
Death did not forget 

With his crushing, cruel heel, 

He impressed on me his seal, 
And on it these words were cut, 
" When I open, none may shut 
" Save the King, whose key I hear." 

If that gem again from heaven 
Were entrusted to my care, 

I could not enfold and keep it 

From the chill, corrupting air ; 
Could not hide it out of sight 
Of the peering prying light : 
Crushed and shattered, mean and vile, 
I am fit only for the funeral pile. 

I am not a harp whose strings 

Wait but for the quivering wings 

Of the breathing Spirit- wind 

Over them its way to find, 

Thrilling them with its fond greeting 

Till they answer back .... repeating 

Tone for tone ; 

Adding others of their own. 

All my chords are tangled, broken, 

And their breaking is a token 

That, if now the wind-like spirit 

Should come longing back to me, 
It would vainly try to elicit 

Note or any melody. 

Life once by me stood and wound 
Each string to its sweetest sound, : >.**i 
But Death stole the winding key, 
And it would be woe to me 
If my soul from heaven should come 

But to find me hushed and mute, 
Soundless as a shattered drum, 
Voiceless as an unblown flute, 

Speechless as a tongueless bell, 
Silent as an unstrung lute, 

Dumber than a dead sea shell ; 
I could not even as a lisper 
Utter back the faintest whisper, 
Were it but to say farewell. 

Archangelic trumpet sounding, 

Thou shalt wake us all ; 
On the startled universe 

Shall thy summons fall ; 
And the sympathising planets 

Shall obey thy call, 
Weeping o'er their sinful sister, 

Stretched beneath her funeral palL 
Earth, thou wert baptized in light, 

When the Spirit brooded o'er thee ; 
Fair thou wert in God's own sight, 

And a life of joy before thee ; 
But thy day was turned to night, 

And an awful change came o'er thee. 
Then thou wert baptized again ; 

In the avenging, cleansing flood, 
Afterward for guilty men 

Christ baptized thee with his blood ; 
K 2 


The Sleep of the Hyacinth. 

Yet to efface the stain of crime 
God shall light thy funeral pyre, 

And the fourth and final time 
Thou shalt be baptized with fire. 


Over the Necropolis and the land of Egypt, 
the seasons and the centuries pass, producing 
their changes in Nature, celestial and terres- 
trial, and in all human history ; everywhere 
there is the same unvarying alternation of Life 
and Death ; and through all this monotony of 
change the Dead sleep, awaiting with irrepres- 
sible yearnings their Resurrection. 

The shadow of the pyramids 
Fled round before the sun : 
By day it fled, 
It onward sped '; 

And when its daily task was done 
The moon arose, and round the plain 
The weary shadow fled again. 

The sphinx looked east, 

The sphinx looked west, 
And north and south her shadow fell ; 

How many times she sought for rest 
And found it not, no tongue may tell. 

But much it vexed the heart of greedy 

That neither rain nor snow, nor frost 

nor hail, 

Trouble the calm of the Egyptian clime ; 
For these for him, like heavy iron 

And wedge and saw, and biting tooth 

and file, 

Against the palaces of kings prevail, 
And crumble down the loftiest pile, 
And eat the ancient hills away, 
And make the very mountains know 

And sorely he would grudge, and much 

would carp, 
That he could never keep his polished 


His mowing sickle keen and sharp, 
For all the din and all the dust he 

He cursed the mummies that they would 

not rot, 
He cursed the paintings that they faded 


And swore to tumble Memnon from his 

But, foiled awhile, to hide his great 

With his wide wings he blew the Libyan 

And hid from mortal eyes the glories of 

the land. 

Then he would hie away 

With many a frown, 
And whet his scythe 

By grinding Babylons down ; 1 
And chuckle blithe, 

As, with his hands 

Sifting the sands, 

He meted in his glass 

How centuries pass, 
And say, " I think this dust doth tell 
Whoever faileth, I work well." 


Round the great dial of the year 

The seasons went and struck the quarters, 

Whilst the swift months, like circling 


Told the twelve changes by their chang- 
ing flowers ; 

And the great glaciers from the moun- 
tain tops, 

Where the bold chamois dare not climb, 
Silently sliding down the slopes, 

Marked the slow years upon the clock 
of Time. 

The burst of revelry was heard no more 
Along the Nile ; nor near its reedy shore 
The pleasant plashing of the dipping oar : 
Nor cry of sailor unto sailor calling, 
Nor music of the hammer on the anvil 


Nor song of women singing in the sun, 
Nor craftsmen merry when their work 

is done : 
The trumpet all was hushed, the harp 

was still, 
And ceased the hum of the revolving 


The sound of solitude alone was there, 
And solemn silence reigning everywhere. 

The sun, the mighty alchymist, 
With burning ardour daily kissed 

1 Similar reference in Hood's poems. 

The Sleep of the Hyacinth. 


Earth's dusky bosom into gold : 
And when at eve 
He took his leave, 
Again his eager lips grew bold, 
And on her dark'ning brow and breast 
His strange transmuting kiss impressed. 

The moon ! she hath hermetic skill, 
As nightly every shadow told ; 
She cannot change all things to gold, 
But she hath skill, and she hath will, 
To turn to silver blackest hill 

And deepest shade and darkest pile ; 
And night by night, 
The gloomy Kile, 
A sea of light, 

Smiled to her smile. 

A million times, by days of men, 
The earth her silver robes put off, 
Only her golden train to doff 

In shortest time again. 

Link by link, and ring by ring, 
Each day and night a link would bring : 
The sun ! a ring, all golden-bright, 
The moon ! a link, all silver white ; 

And so the twain 

Wove at the chain 
Which they have woven all the way, 
Since first was night, and first was day. 
It girdleth round the earth, and then, 
Swift passing from the abodes of men, 
It all transcendeth human ken 
To trace it back, it goes so far, 
Up to the dawn of time, 
Beyond the farthest star. 

In the lost past 

It hangeth fast, 
Held by the hand of God ; 
And angels, when they wish to know 
How time is moving here below, 
Come floating down on half-spread wings, 
And see the steps our earth has trod, 
By counting the alternate rings 
That mark the day 

And mark the night, 
Since God said "Be" 

And there was light. 
The azure sky a garden lay, 

In which at mid-day seed was sown ; 

It peeped at eve, at twilight budded, 

And, when the day had passed away, 
The buds were burst, the leaves were 


And starry flowers the midnight 
studded : 

Quick bloomed they there, 
Too bright and fair 
Not to be taken soon away : 
Thick through the air 

Rained they, 
In blazing showers, 
Their meteor-flowers, 
And withered at the dawn of day. 
They were not blotted from the sky ! 
They faded, but they did not die : 
Each in its azure-curtained bed 
In stillest slumber slept ; 
Whilst, glancing far, 
The evening star 
A wakeful vigil kept, 
Till, when the setting sun withdrew, 

The appointed sign was given, 
And each grew up and bloomed anew, 
And glorified the face of heaven. 

Swift comets fled across the sky, 

Like murderers from the wrath of God, 
With frenzied look, and fiery eye 

(For swift behind the avenger trod), 
And long, dishevelled, trailing hair, 
Seeking in vain to find a lair, 
Where they could hide their great de- 
They sought the very bounds of space, 

But dared not for a moment stay ; 
The dread Avenger's awful face 

Waited before them on the way : . 
They turned, their footsteps to retrace ; 
They thought they flagged not in the race, 
But shuddered as a mighty force, 

Which none could see, but all could 

Checking their wild eccentric course, 

Bade them in lesser circles wheel : 
The judgment had gone forth that they 

Should feed the burning sun : 

They felt that vengeance had begun 
Which, though it suffered long delay, 

Would sternly smite and surely slay 

When their appointed race was run. 
And some there were of gentler sort, 
With slower step, of lowlier port, 
With smoother locks and calmer eye, 
Who, shooting by the startled sky, 


The Sleep of the Hyacinth. 

Or gleaming through the midday blue, 
On errands sent which no one knew, 
Came none knew whence ; went none 

knew where, 
The gipsies of the upper air. 

So whirled those stars, whilst worlds of 


Died ere the time of their returning ; 
Yet they failed not to come again, 
"With unquenched tresses fiercely burn- 

And, round a smaller area turning, 
Flew like doomed things to meet 

the ire 
That gave them to eternal fire. 

And, as they left the sleeping pair, 
They found them still at each return- 

Down in the darkness, keeping there 
An everlasting mourning. 

They would have thought the baleful 


Of comets a delightful sight, 
And joyed to gaze up at their hair, 
Waving malignant in the air. 
But not the faintest flickering gleam 

Of all their blinding glare, 
Not one adventurous errant beam, 

Could grope its way adown the stair 
That led to their sepulchral room, 
Or find a chink within their tomb, 
By which to show to spell-bound eyes 
The terrors of the midnight skies. 

The ibis gravely stalking 

As a self-appointed warden, 
Through every valley walking, 

Went through and through the gar- 
And with his curved bill, 

Like a reaper's sickle hook, 
On every noxious thing 

A speedy vengeance took. 
White pelicans came sailing 

Like galleys down the stream ; 
And the peacock raised the wailing 

Of his melancholy scream, 
From the lofty temple-summits 

Where he loved to take his stand, 
As if to catch a glimpse 

Of his far-distant land. 

And the sober matron geese, 

Now swimming and now wading, 
Now paddling in the mud, 

And now on shore parading, 
Moved, discoursing to each' other 

With their mellow trumpet- voices, 
Each with native music telling 

Of a creature that rejoices ; 
Till some leader's shrillest signal, 

As of sudden foe invading, 
Stopped the babble of their tongues, 

And their careless promenading, 
And they rose in steady phalanx 

Unfurling in the air, 
Like the banners of an army 

When they hear the trumpet's blare; 
And now they kept together 

Like a fleet of ships at sea, 
When they fear not stormy weather 

Or foe from whom to flee ; 
And then they scattered far and wide, 

Like ships before a gale, 
When naked masts stand up on deck 

With scarce a single sail ; 
And now their phalanx like a wedge 

Went cleaving through the air, 
And then it was a hollow ring, 

And then a hollow square. 
So ! free through sea, and earth, and 

With web, and foot, and wing, 
They lowly walked, or soared on high, 

And none disturbed their travelling. 

They wandered at their own wild will 
Till daylight died and all was still, 
And then a summons clear and shrill 
Led them all back with weary wing, 
To rest in peace 
Till night should cease, 
Lulled by the Nile's low murmuring ; 
And in the garden's ample ground 
They each a welcome haven found. ?roH 

The garden was all full of life, 

All filled with living things ; 
Life in the earth and air, 

On bird and insect wings ; 
Life swimming in the river, 

Life walking on the land. 
The life of eye arid ear, 

And heart, and brain, and hand. 

The Sleep of the Hyacinth. 


Life ! in the lichen sleeping, 

Life ! in the moss half-waking, 
A drowsy vigil keeping ; 

Life ! in the green tree taking 
Its free course as a river ; 
Life, making each nerve quiver 
In the eagle upward soaring ; 

Life, flowing on for ever, 
Its waters ever pouring 
Into that grave of death, which we 
Count as an all-devouring sea ; 

Dark are its depths, but they cannot retain 
Aught that was living ; it will not re- 
main : 

Down in the darkness it hateth to stay ; 
Upward it riseth, and cleaveth its way 
Out of Death's midnight into Life's day. 
Fire from God's altar rekindleth its 

Effaceth Death's mark and removeth 

his stain, 

Clothes it afresh and changeth its name, 
Nerves it anew to pleasure and pain, 
And sendeth it back to the place whence 

it came : 

Thither it speeds and returneth again, 
Like the wave of the lake 

And the foam of the river, 
Which as clouds from the sea 

The sun doth dissever. 
He bathes them in glory, 

He clothes them in light, 
He weaves for them garments of every 

hue : 
They tire of the glory, 

They steal from his sight, 
They drop on the earth as invisible dew. 
They return to the lake, 
They revisit the river, 
Like arrows shot up 

Which come back to their quiver. 
As the cloud was the sea, 

And the sea was the cloud, 
So the cradle of Life 

Is wrapped in Death's shroud. 
The Life cometh down 

As the rain comes from heaven ; 
To flow is its law ; 

To Death it is given. 
The Life riseth up 

As a cloud from. Death's sea ; 
It changeth its robe, 
From decay it is free ; 

It mocketh at Death, 

It breaketh his chain ; 
And the clouds in the sky , 
Come after the rain. 
Life's a spender, 

Death's a keeper; 
Life's a watcher, 

Death's a sleeper ; 
Life s a sower, 

Death's a reaper ; 
Life's a laugher, 

Death's a weeper ; 
Life's an ever-flowing river, 

Death's an ever-filling se x a ; 
Death is shackled, 

Life is free ; 
Death is darkness, 

Life is light ; 
Death is blindness, 

Life is sight; 
Life is fragrant, 

Death is noisome ; 
Death is woeful, 

Life is joy some ; 
Life is music, 

Death is soundless ; 
Death is bounded, 

Life is boundless ; 
Death is lowly, 

Life hath pride ; 
Death's a bridegroom, 

Life's the bride ; 
Death's the winter, 

Life's the spring ; 
Life's a queen, 

But Death's a king ; 
Life's a blossom, 

Death's its root ; 
Death's a seed, 

And life's its fruit ; 
Death is sown, 

And life upsprings ; 
Death hath fetters, 

Life hath wings. 

So in endless iteration, 

Through the long protracted ages > 
Eose their wailing alternation ; 
Like the murmur that presages 
Eising tempests, ere their fullest 

fury rages, 
Eose and fell 
Its plaintive swell, 


Poets Corner ; or, an English Writers Tomb. 

Like the mourning one doth hear, 
Listening with attentive ear 
To the sighing of a shell, 

Orphaned from its mother sea, 
Where it longs again to dwell, 
Weary of its liberty. 

So they panted for the light ; 

Yearned for the living day, 
Sick of silence, tired of darkness, 

Chafing at the long delay ; 
Till, when thrice a thousand years 

Drearily had passed away, 

Hope and faith fled with them too, 
And they ceased to pray. 

No one seemed to love or heed them, 
And in dull despair they waited, 
To a hopeless bondage fated, 

Till the Archangel's voice should bid 

Rise upon the Judgment Day. 

[Here the Author's MS. ends the intended 
final part, to be called the " Awaking," never 
having been written.] 


" Died, at his lodgings in Bond Street, the Rev. Mr. Sterne." 

THE first shadows of a dreary and sun- 
less evening in May were preparing to 
descend upon the earth ; the wind was 
blowing from the east ; the bells were 
just beginning to toll for a Thursday 
evening lecture ; and Messieurs Ma- 
thews and Fudge were sitting at an 
enormous dining-table in the house of 
the first named of these gentlemen, and 
were drinking their wine in silence and 

And why in depression ? Who knows 1 
Who will ever know the reasons that 
account for that mysterious ebb and 
flow in the animal spirits which we feel 
but cannot explain 1 A change in the 
wind, in the moon, a rise or fall of the 
quicksilver in the weather-glass, the 
number of sovereigns in your pocket 
all these things will affect you. So will 
the sights and sounds about you, the 
locality in which you find yourself, the 
dress you have on. The influence of a 
dress-coat upon the mind, sometimes for 
good, sometimes for evil, is a subject on 
which treatises might be written ; and 
as to that of places, the present writer 
would have but a poor opinion of that 
man whose spirits did not sink when he 
had crossed the Thames and found him- 
self in the Waterloo Eoad, or who could 

retain any gaiety of soul in the purlieus 
of Pentonville. 

But our two friends were neither in 
the Waterloo Eoad nor in Pentonville. 
They had dined well. There was plenty 
of good wine before them. The almond 
and the raisin were there to flank the 
juice of the grape. The date of Tafilat 
itself, and the well-known plum of 
France, were not unrepresented. Whence, 
then, this gloom, and why especially is 
the brow of Mr. Fudge clouded as with 
the umbrage of a nascent desperation 1 
Who can tell ? Haply these gentlemen 
began their dinners too cheerfully, and 
have now run themselves out. Haply 
Mr. Mathews is haunted by the thought 
that he has made a mistake in com- 
mencing his meal with crab salad, and 
ending it with stewed cheese, and that 
for a dyspeptic man this is a bad look- 
out. Haply Mr. Fudge is reminded by 
a little monitor within him (who is for 
ever suggesting to him pleasant subjects 
for thought) that he has got to pay two 
hundred pounds away next October, and 
that he has only saved up two hundred 
shillings towards it in that present 
month of May. Perhaps, again, these 
gentlemen are both affected by having 
dined an hour too early (for there is no 

Poet's Corner ; or, an English Writer s Tomb. 


mind so well-regulated as not to feel 
the ill effects of a five o'clock dinner) ; 
or, possibly, the sound of the bell be- 
fore alluded to may have a share in 
the despondency which has settled down 
upon them. 

At all events, it is so. Mr. Mathews 
leans his head "upon his hand, and his 
elbow upon the table, and fixing his 
eyes upon the ceiling, merely says at 
intervals, "Help yourself;" and Mr. 
Fudge does help himself, and with every 
fresh glass gets so additionally unhappy, 
that at last he pushes away the decanter, 
and says, in the tone of a man lashed 
up to some tremendous course, " I'll tell 
you what, Mathews, this will not DO." 

" It will NOT do," shouted Mr. Ma- 
thews, echoing his friend's words with 
a variation in the emphasis, and smiting 
the table with his fist ; " but the ques- 
tion is, what will do 1 " 

" We must go out," said Mr. Fudge. 

" We must," replied his compliant 

" Where shall we go 1 " was the next 
question. It emanated from the lips of 
Mr. Fudge. 

"What do you say to the Park?" 
inquired Mathews ; " there is a cheerful 
(and wholesome) walk by the Serpen- 

" I don't want a cheerful walk," said 
Mr. Fudge. 

" Gracious heavens ! what do you 
want, then ! " cried his companion, with 
alarm depicted in his countenance. 

" I want a gloomy walk," was the 
awful reply. 

A. long pause succeeded this tremen- 
dous announcement, and then it was 
that Mr. Mathews, after gazing steadily 
for some seconds at his friend in silence, 
performed the following manoeuvres. 
He rose slowly from his chair, drawing, 
as he did so, a bunch of keys from his 
pocket, with a subdued and reverent 
jingle; then he advanced with measured 
steps towards a very old cabinet, or 
carved press, which stood in the corner 
of the room, and which seemed to have 
got into a dark nook behind the curtains, 
that it might end its days quietly in the 
shade. Having tried every one of his 

keys in the lock of this venerable piece 
of furniture, and having found the 
seventeenth (and last) upon the bunch 
to answer his purpose, Mr. Mathews 
opened, with great caution, one door of 
the cabinet, and disclosed to view several 
rows of books, not one of which was 
less than half a century old, and some 
of them much more. Mr. Mathews 
selected one volume from among these, 
and, having blown the dust from off the 
top of the leaves, returned with it, still 
very solemnly and slowly, and still in 
profound silence, and, seating himself, 
placed the book upon the table, and 
spread it open with his hands. 

It was then that Mr. Fudge, who was 
burning with curiosity to know what all 
this meant, looking at the title-page from 
where he sat, and reading it upside 
down, made out first the word " Tris- 
tram," and then, as Mr. Mathews turned 
over the leaf, he supplied the dissyllable 
" Shandy " from his imagination, and 
determined that the book which had 
been taken down with such ceremony 
from the old bookcase was no other than 
" Tristram Shandy." We have said that 
Mr. Mathews turned over a leaf. Having 
done this he paused, and his companion 
saw, still upside down, " Biographical 
Notice of the Author." Having spelt 
this out, he next observed that Mr. 
Mathews turned over two more leaves, 
and that the Biographical Notice must 
be a very short one, for at the bottom 
of the third page it came to an end. 
He had just noticed these matters, and 
was wondering what was to come next, 
and what all this had to db with the 
proposed walk, when Mr. Mathews, 
clearing his throat in a prefatory man- 
ner, began, without a word of explana- 
tion, to read the following sentence : 

" Mr. Sterne died as he lived, the 
same indifferent careless creature ; as, a 
day or two before his death, he seemed 
not in the least affected by his approach- 
ing dissolution. He Avas buried pri- 
vately in a new burying-ground belong- 
ing to the parish of St. George's, Hanover 
Square, at twelve o'clock at noon, at- 
tended only by two gentlemen in a 
mourning coach, no bell tolling. His 


Poet's Corner ; or, an English Writer's Tomb. 

death was announced in the news- 
papers of March 22, 1768, by the 
following paragraph : 

" ' Died at his lodgings in Bond- 
street, the Rev. Mr. Sterne. 5 " 

The profound silence which followed 
the reading of this quotation, and which 
lasted till the clock upon the chimney- 
piece had ticked away two minutes of 
life, as if it tried to stop each cog of the 
wheels as it passed, and failing to arrest 
them noted every one that broke away 
in its resistless strength with an excla- 
mation of sorrow this silence was at 
length interrupted by the voice of Mr. 

" We will go there," he said. 

"Go, where? " asked Mr. Fudge. 

"To ' the new burial-ground belonging 
to the parish of St. George's, Hanover- 
Square,' " was Mr. MatheVs answer. 

" Where is it 1 " again inquired the 
startled Fudge. 

" In the Bayswater Road," said Mr. 
Mathews ; " you wanted a gloomy walk, 
and you shall have it." 

It was a gray and cheerless evening, 
and the month, as has been said, was the 
month of May. The sun should always 
come out in the evening whatever the 
day has been. However well you may 
get through a cloudy day, you will al- 
ways feel the influence of a dull evening 
upon your spirits. I think there is no 
person who fails to notice and to regret 
it. It is like a, gloomy old age. But then 
it was May, and is there any person 
living who believes in that treacherous 
month ? To the present writer there is 
something heartless and cold even in its 
brightest sunshine. 

There was, however, no sunshine, 
heartless or otherwise, on the particular 
evening with which we are at present 
occupied. The wind, too, was blowing 
from the east. Not a bracing invigo- 
rating breeze that brought the colour to 
your cheek. Not even a hurricane such 
as you get in March, and which it is 
some excitement to straggle against. 
No, it was a stealthy creeping sinister 
wind, that made people look like the 
evening, pale and cloudy ; a wind that 
did not content itself with puffing up 

against you and then passing on as a 
well conditioned wind should, but, on 
the contrary, a wind that found out all 
the weak points of your attire; a wind 
that crept in and stuck to you, and 
stealing in among your ribs remained 
there ; a wind that in its sulky chill was 
not even glad when it had gained its 
object, but was just as dull and spirit- 
less when it had given you cold, as it 
was before. Out upon such a wind as 
that ! 

A long brick building not red brick ; 
that would have been too hilarious a 
building that looked something between 
a dwarfish factory and a gigantic coach- 
house, with a slight touch of the work- 
house, and just a hint of the conventicle, 
imparted by the belfry which contained 
the bell which did not ring for Mr. 
Sterne's funeral. Such an edifice as 
this, set back from the road in an in- 
closed space, and with a knocker on its 
huge central door, was just the kind of 
building to tell to advantage on such an 
evening as has just been described. It 
stands in the Bayswater Road, about a 
quarter of a mile west from Tyburn- 
gate. It gives admission to the burying- 
ground belonging to the parish of St. 
George's, Hanover-Square, and before its 
gloomy gates the two friends, whose 
footsteps we are following, arrested their 
course. The sight of this melancholy 
structure might, one would have thought, 
have daunted them and deterred them 
from pursuing their pilgrimage farther. 
We have, indeed, the best reason to 
know that the younger of the two gentle- 
men, Mr. David Fudge to wit, was 
daunted; and we have cause to believe 
that he woidd have turned and fled at 
once had he not been stimulated and 
kept up by the example of his com- 
panion, the courageous Mr. Mathews, 
a gentleman who is such an inveterate 
sight-seer, and who, in the pursuit of 
his antiquarian researches, is so com- 
pletely a stranger to fear, that he would 
make nothing of knocking at the door 
of a house in St. James's Square and 
requesting admission if he thought that 
Sir Joshua Reynolds had ever supped 
in the back dining-room. 

Poet's Corner; or, an English Writer's Tomb. 


Mr. Mathews, then, strong in his 
determination to discover the tonib of 
his favourite author, undaunted by the 
forbidding aspect of the chapel that 
looked like a coach-house, or by the 
observant gaze of two London boys 
who, remaining outside the iron-railings, 
watched the proceedings of the two 
gentlemen with eager curiosity Mr. 
Mathews, undismayed by these matters, 
advanced along the inclosed space with 
a confident step, closely imitated by his 
companion, and, as he knocked at the 
door of the chapel fancy knocking at 
the door of a burying-ground was en- 
couraged by the two London boys from 
without with the comfortable assurance 
that " he'd be safe to find 'em at home." 
An allusion, it may be supposed, to the 
occupants of the graves at the back ! 

This appeal to the knocker was in- 
stantly responded to by a tall man in 
a dress coat, and drab trousers, who 
admitted without question the two 
gentlemen whose fortunes we are follow- 
ing, and, closing the door behind them, 
shut out the Bayswater Road, the two 
London boys, and the view of Hyde 
Park, as rapidly as if the place had been 
in a state of siege, or as if he thought 
Messieurs Mathews and Fudge had 
come to be buried, and might repent 
and go away if they were not humoured 
at once. 

He was a meek and subdued personage, 
this tall man in the swallow-tailed coat, 
and the drab trousers; -he was also a 
polite man and a pale. One whole wing 
of the building into which our two 
friends were now admitted was allotted 
to him for a dwelling house, while the 
other was devoted to a chapel for the 
dead, a dreadful place, whose walls had 
never echoed any other sounds than the 
hollow bumping of coffins, the shuffling 
of feet, and the words of the funeral 
service. What a place for a tall thin 
man to live in a tall thin man in a 
swallow-tailed coat ! 

The influence of this ghostly building 
upon the sensitive nerves of Mr. Fudge 
was such, that he conveyed to his friend 
a whispered suggestion, that he thought 
it would be better that they should come 

again on another and a sunnier day. 
Mr. Mathews, however, would not hear 
of this. That heroic man betrayed his 
emotion by nothing but a slight pallor 
and a nervous cough, indulged in in a 
secret manner behind the tips of his 
fingers. The tall man seemed to have a 
respect for Mr. Mathews, and inquired 
without waiting to hear what was the 
object of his visit, whether he had come 
to see the grave of Sir Thomas Picton, 
or that of Mrs. Eadcliffe the Authoress, 

" That of Lawrence Sterne," said Mr. 
Mathews, interrupting him. 

The tall man bowed, and retired into 
his private apartments to fetch his hat. 
Mr. Fudge, looking into the room after 
him, observed a vast chamber, bare of 
all furniture, except one wooden chair 
and a deal table, on which was a black 
tea-tray with a black tea-pot upon it, a 
yellow cup and saucer, a half-quartern 
loaf, and a knife with a black handle. 

" I shall never get over this," whisper- 
ed Mr. Fudge to his companion, 

The burying-ground, into which our 
friends were conducted by the tall man 
in the dress coat, was an unhappy 
specimen of its class. Without one 
beautiful monument, without one feature 
in its larger aspect to diminish the 
horror that death inspires, or one at- 
tempt to give a hopeful look to that 
which without hope must not be thought 
of, stretched out in grim and ghastly 
fact, a piece of ground in whose sodden 
trenches the dead are packed in rows, 
hemmed in all rpund by houses whose 
inhabitants have used the place as a 
dust-hole into which to fling their offal, 
this grave-yard spreads its broad expanse 
of tombs, a sight to make a good man 
shudder, and a saint afraid to die. 

In this desolate place the neglected 
paths had got, from long disuse, to be 
so choked with the rank growth that 
had accumulated upon them, as to be 
only distinguishable in those parts where 
the gravel happening to be composed of 
larger and heavier stones offered greater 
resistance to the upward springing of 
the weeds. Our two friends had, how- 
ever, little to do with such pathways, 


Poet's Corner ; or, an English Writer s Tomb. 

for their conductor led them, across the 
burying-ground in a diagonal line, 
stepping from grave to grave with his 
long thin legs, and preceding them with 
a tremulous stride. 

Across the graves, and winding in and 
out among ricketty tombstones, some of 
which had fallen to one side, and wore 
a waggish look, while some leant help- 
lessly back or tipsily forward, having 
cracked the ground open with their 
weight, and made it gape to such a 
width and depth,, that Mr. Fudge was 
afraid to look into the chasm, lest he 
should see some sight of horror across 
the graves, and passing by unheeded 
these mute appeals which pressed upon 
their notice the virtues of the dead, 
across- the graves, dipping down into 
little valleys, where the ground had sunk 
as with the collapse of some bulk that 
lay beneath (perhaps it had), mounting 
up as some more substantial heap came 
in their way, and nearly tumbling head- 
long once, where a half-finished grave, 
left incomplete for years, yawned sud- 
denly beneath their feet, why a half- 
finished grave 1 Had ithe man come to 
life again for whom it was begun, or had 
the sexton lit upon something that told 
him he must dig no further 1 across 
the graves, and among such places as we 
have described, the pale man led the 
way to the extremity of this grim 
cemetery where it is bounded by its 
western wall, and, stopping before a 
shabby head-stone of the common kind 
stuck upright in the earth, informed 
Mr. Mathews, to whom he directed all 
his remarks, that the object of his 
visit was there before him, and that 
this was the monument of Lawrence 
Sterne ! 

It has been said above that this 
burying-ground was surrounded on all 
sides by houses, the inhabitants of which 
had regarded the vacant space appropri- 
ated to the dead, as a convenient place 
into which to fling the rubbish that 
encumbered them. Now this poor grave- 
stone of Mr. Sterne's being so near the 
wall, it happened that plenty of such 
refuse had accumulated around and about 
it, giving to this corner a more shameful 

aspect than perhaps to any other part of 
this most sordid cemetery. Yes, there lay 
the remains of this luxurious gentleman, 
among fragments of broken bottles, old 
tin pots, among egg-shells, and oyster- 
shells, and every valueless, decaying 
form of rotten, useless garbage that could 
be collected to make this place detest- 
able. Beneath all this there lay the 
bones of that keen and witty face, the 
dust of that lean and pampered body. 
It was very shocking. There might not 
be much to like in this man; perhaps 
there was nothing but his genius to 
admire in him ; but still this was very 
dreadful. A common paltry head-stone 
with a wretched vulgar inscription put 
up by two strangers (free-masons), and 
even this not certainly above the grave 
where the unfortunate gentleman lay; 
for it merely stated that his remains 
were buried " near this place," and left 
it to be inferred that the grave had been 
for some time left without any mark at 
all, so that when the stone was raised 
at last, it had become difficult to know 
(to a yard or two) where to put it ! 

The effect of this termination to their 
expedition upon the minds of the two 
gentlemen, who had come to this grave- 
yard in expectation of finding something 
so utterly different, was a very marked 
one. It showed itself in a long, long 
silence, and when this was at length 
broken the two friends spoke at first in 
an under tone little above a whisper. 
The tall man stood by at a little distance, 
slowly rubbing his hands in a depre- 
catory manner, which seemed to say, 
"Yes ; I know that this is not satisfactory, 
but it is not my fault, gentlemen is 

"And so," said Mr. Mathews at 
length, in a hoarse whisper, "and so 
the fashionable people, who could send 
eight or ten invitations a day to the 
great man who is buried in this hole, 
cared, in reality, so little about him that 
they could not manage among them to 
erect a decent monument to his memory, 
to follow him to the grave in decent 
numbers, or to pay the bell-ringers to 
toll the bell for a decent number of 

Poet's Corner ; or an English Writers Tomb. 


" It is pretty obvious that they asked 
him simply because he amused them, 
and that he left neither respect nor love 
behind him," said Mr. Fudge. 

"I can fancy," Mr. Mathews went 
on to say, "the small amount of sensa- 
tion made at the time by his death. I 
can fancy some man coming to announce 
it to an assembly of wits and belles of 
the period, saying, 

" ' I hear that the ingenious Mr. 
Sterne hath departed this life.' 

" ' And left a plentiful crop of debts 
behind him/ says Lady Betty. 

" ' They do tell me/ continues the first 
speaker, ' that there is not wherewithal 
to pay for his funeral, or the rent of his 
lodgings in Bond Street.' 

" ' He was, indeed, shamefully ex- 
travagant and selfish/ says somebody 

" ' And little mindful of his duties as 
a clergyman/ puts^in another." 

"And then I can fancy," continued 
the imaginative Mr. Mathews ; "I can 
fancy a certain just and merciful 
personage who has been sitting by, and 
who all this time has been swaying his 
body backwards and forwards, and 
making many uncouth sounds as if 
about to speak. I can imagine his 
bursting out at last : 

" ' Sir, sir, let us hear no more of 
this. This disparagement of the dead 
is mighty offensive.' " 

The tall man in the dress coat, who 
has drawn nearer when. Mr. Mathews 
began to speak, seems vastly interested 
in this imaginary dialogue,, which was 
given latterly in a loud key. He is 
evidently much disappointed at Mr. 
Mathews' next remark. 

" This is very shocking," says that 
gentleman. " Let us go." 

"By all means," answers Mr. Fudge, 
with astonishing alacrity. 

The tall man is evidently sorry to 
lose these two gentlemen, and to be left 
to the deadly solitude in which he lives. 
He presses other graves upon their 
attention, is liberal in his offer of in- 
teresting epitaphs, and will, especially, 
scarcely take "no" for an answer in 
the matter of Sir Thomas Picton. But 

it is getting dark, and Mr. Fudge is 
especially resolved on flight. They 
reach once more the chapel which looks 
like a coach-house, and Mr. Fudge has 
his hand upon the lock to let himself 
out, when the tall man makes a last 
attempt. "The monument of Mrs. 
Radcliffe," he says, or rather sighs in 
the distance. 

" No," shudders Mr. Fudge, who has 
by this time rushed into the Bayswater 
Road. " No an east wind the even- 
ing closing in nearly dark a tall thin 
man in a swallow-tailed coat a burying 
ground and the tomb of Ann Radcliffe 
these things taken all together would 
be more than mortal nerves could stand." 

A curious circumstance in connexion 
with the subject of the foregoing paper 
has just been brought before the notice 
of the writer. In the life of Edmond 
Malone, by Sir James Prior, which has 
recently appeared, there occurs the 
following paragraph, bearing reference 
to Lawrence Sterne : 

" He was buried in a grave-yard near 
'Tyburn, belonging to the parish of 
'Marylebone, and the corpse, being 
'marked by some of the resurrection 
' men (as they are called), was taken up 
'soon afterward, and carried to an 
'anatomy professor of Cambridge. A 
'gentleman who was present at the 
' dissection, told me he recognised 
' Sterne's face the moment he saw the 

It would surely be very interesting 
if any light could be thrown on this 
mysterious affair. The body of the un- 
fortunate Mr. Sterne was but a poor 
prize for purposes of dissection. He 
speaks of his spider legs himself, and 
the portrait and description of him give 
one the idea of a lean and emaciated 
presence. Can any one tell who was 
this anatomy professor of Cambridge, 
who had so ardent a desire to examine 
Sterne's remains that he employed re- 
surrection men to exhume the deceased 
gentleman's body 1 Is there any one at 
Cambridge who could afford informa- 
tion on this subject? It must at least 
be possible to find out who were the 


The Boundaries of Science. 

anatomy professors at the University 
in the year of Sterne's decease. 

It would, indeed, be a curious thing, 
if the information contained in the 
above-quoted paragraph should really 
prove to be true ; and it would add one 
more ghastly element to the already 

melancholy tale of Sterne's death and 
burial, if we should ascertain that the 
body which was deposited in the grave 
with so small an amount of ceremonial, 
was not even allowed to rest there, but 
was handed over to the surgeons after 



Philocalos. Philalethes. 

Philoc. So, Philalethes, it is true that 
you are a convert to this new theory ! 
You are a believer in a doctrine 
which makes the struggle of a selfish 
competition the sole agency in nature 
which, taking one of the most unfor- 
tunate, if inevitable, results of an old 
civilization, transfers it to that world 
where we hoped to find a beauty and 
order to which civilization has not yet 
attained ! Poets have spoken of the face 
of nature as serene and tranquil; you 
paint it scarred by conflict and furrowed 
by sordid care ! You turn the pure 
stream where we have been accustomed 
to find the reflection of heaven, into a 
turbid current where we can perceive 
nothing but the dark hues of earth ! 

Philal. If I did not happen to know 
what book you had been reading, my 
dear Philocalos, I should have some 
difficulty in guessing your meaning. 
Not that you can have read much of 
any book so widely removed from all 
your subjects of interest. 

Philoc. That a man feels but slight 
interest in tracing the ramifications of 
science is no proof that he may not 
wish to ascend to the fountain head. I 
confess, however, that I did not read 
the whole book, that I did not master 
all the details, but I made out quite 
enough of the scope of each chapter to 
leave little room for doubt as to the 
general purport of the whole work. 
And have I misrepresented it in what I 
said just now ? 

Philal. That may admit of question ; 
it is not a theory which can be fairly 
judged from a single point of view. 
But if I, looking at the theory in a 
different light, learn from it to regard 
the strife which unquestionably exists 
in nature as the fire in which her master- 
pieces are to be tested, her failures 
destroyed, will you deny that this is 
also a fair version of the author's 
doctrine ? 

Philoc. I should not need to do so in 
order to justify my horror of such a 
creed. For, Philalethes, on this hypo- 
thesis, selfishness and progress are in- 
separably linked. Every self-sacrificing 
impulse, every generous care for the 
sick or infirm, every pause in the selfish 
struggle for ascendancy, are so many 
drags on the wheels of progress ; and if 
that day ever arrives on earth when the 
love of self shall be swallowed up in 
wider and deeper love, then those 
wheels will be finally arrested. The 
death of selfishness will be the barrier 
beyond which the human race will 
remain for ever stationary. 

Philal. You overlook considerations 
which materially interfere with the 
operation of the principle in regard to 

Philoc. I am astonished at such hesi- 
tation in one of your logical mind ! 
What does the theory make of man but 
a superior vertebrate animal ? 

Philal. Do you not see that a discus- 
sion concerning the tools of the builder 

The Boundaries of Science. 


affords no legitimate inference as to 
the plan of the architect 1 that an 
examination of the workshop of nature 
includes no notice of the models which 
have been set before her to copy 1 

Philoc. The workshop of nature ! Is 
that the quarter to which we should 
look for the origin of man 1 

Philal. The very point I am so 
anxious to impress upon you. I look 
to the plan of the architect for the 
origin of a house, not to the tools of the 

Philoc. Are we then twice removed 
from our Creator 1 ? Is creation so analo- 
gous to the laborious efforts of man 1 

Philal. Let me answer you in the 
words of Bacon : " For as in civil actions 
' he is the greater and deeper politique 
' that can make other men the instru- 
' ments of his will and ends, and yet ' 
' never acquaint them with his purpose, 
. . so is the wisdom of God more 
' admirable when nature intendeth one 
' thing, and Providence draweth forth 
' another, than if He had communicated 
' to particular creatures and motions 
' the characters and impressions of His 
' providence. 

Philoc. But, tell me, how does your 
view of the theory admit of the excep- 
tion which you claim for the case of 
man 1 ? 

Philal. Because I believe it to be 
part of the plan of man laid down by 
the great Architect, that there should be 
that within him which, holding commu- 
nion with the supernatural, raises him 
above the influence of mere natural 

Philoc. And does not that very fact 
supply a confutation of the theory? 
Nature, working by a system of anta- 
gonistic influences, produces an agent 
whose highest glory it is to set those 
influences at defiance. The typical 
man the highest ideal of manhood 
acts upon motives not only different 
from, but utterly opposed to those 
which have made him what he is. 
Must there not be some flaw in the 
premisses from which such a conclusion 
may be derived ? 

Philal. I see no reductio ad absur- 

dum in your inference. In crossing the 
barrier which separates matter from 
spirit, you introduce a new element, to 
which the former grounds of reasoning 
will no longer apply. 

Philoc. But is it true that the theory 
of natural selection does apply to mate- 
rial creation alone ? It professes, at 
least, to account for instinct ; and it 
must be admitted that instinct and 
reason blend insensibly into each other. 
How then is it possible to draw any line 
which shall cut off man from the influ- 
ences which have been omnipotent over 
his ancestors ? 

Philal. My dear Philocalos, I am far 
from asserting that that objection is un- 
important ; but I want you to feel that, in 
making it, you are transplanting the dis- 
cussion to a region where the author of 
the hypothesis is not bound to follow 
you. All that he is bound to do, is to 
show that his hypothesis supplies an 
adequate explanation of all facts lying 
within the science which it professes to 
explain. For him to adjust it to other 
views of truth, would be as if the maker 
of this microscope had endeavoured to 
contrive such a combination of lenses 
as should allow of its being used, under 
certain circumstances, as a telescope. 
We may rest assured that, in the one 
case, our knowledge of the stars and the 
infusoria would suffer equally ; and in 
the other, that we should have a medley 
of very poor moral philosophy, and very 
poor natural science. 

Philoc. Without being prepared with 
a logical reply to such a vindication, I 
must confess that kind of argument is 
always unsatisfactory to me. It seems 
to me like saying that a certain proposi- 
tion may be true in one language and 
not in another; surely, Truth is one 
harmonious whole. 

Philal. Your objection is one with 
which I have the greatest sympathy. 
No doubt all the lines of Truth converge, 
but it is at too small an angle, and too 
vast a distance, for us to be able in all 
cases to perceive the tendency to unite. 
Moreover, it is the indispensable requi- 
site of the man of science not that 
he should ignore or forget this com- 


The Boundaries of Science. 

munity of direction in all the clues 
of Truth but that he renounce any 
attempt at making his own investiga- 
tions subordinate to the proof of that 
conclusion. I do not decide whether 
such a subject is capable of proof; I 
only say that, when the student of 
physical science undertakes it, he is 
renouncing his own proper study as 
effectually as the pilot who should 
attempt to decide on the most favour- 
able market for the goods with which 
his vessel is freighted. I must repeat 
in another form what I said just now. 

You know it is a law of physiology 
that, as any, animal ascends in the scale 
of being, all its organs become more and 
more specialized to their peculiar func- 
tions. Thus, the four hands of the 
monkey are used indifferently as organs 
of prehension or locomotion, while in 
man, at the summit of the scale, each 
function has its proper organ exclusively 
appropriated to it. Now this fact is the 
expression of a law which is universal 
No machine which is adapted to two 
purposes will fulfil either of them so 
perfectly as one which should be con- 
structed solely with a view to that one. 
No man who combines the professions 
of a lawyer and a physician will make 
so able a lawyer, so skilful a physician, 
as one who should have devoted his life 
to the study of either profession. And 
science, believe me, is not less exacting 
than physic or law. The researches of 
the man of science must not be cramped 
by fears of trespassing on the entangled 
boundary of a neighbouring domain. 
If he allow his course to be broken by 
claims on behalf of a superior authority 
to exclusive occupancy of the ground, 
not only will the powers be distracted 
which, when in perfect harmony, are not 
more than adequate to the work before 
them not only will his step be feeble 
and uncertain on his own special pro- 
vince, but his conviction of the har- 
mony of the creation will be destroyed ; 
the suspicion, fatal to all science, will be 
forced upon him, that truth can ever be 
inconsistent with truth. 

Philoc. Of course, truth can never be 
inconsistent with truth, but a partial 

view of truth may be inconsistent with 
the whole. The statement of one fact, 
apart from others, may give as false an 
impression as the sense of sight might 
give of the external world, if it could 
not be corrected by that of touch. 

Philal. But you do not, therefore, 
attempt to make the eye the medium of 
touch. You do not suppose there can be 
such a thing as an excess of sight. The 
impressions of the external world are 
truest when all the senses are in their 
fullest exercise, and, even if some are 
absent or feeble, you gain nothing by 
diminishing the rest. I do not cease to 
see that round table oblong when I look 
at it obliquely, by becoming short- 

Philoc. What I cannot agree to, is that 
parcelling-out of truth into divisions, 
between which no communication is 
possible; least of all, when the instance 
is one which concerns the nature . of 
man. That any ingenuous mind should 
deny an antagonism between his spiritual 
nature and any hypothesis which ignores 
his distinct creation this I cannot 
readily believe. 

Philal. There is an antagonism, I 
believe, in all the views of man's spi- 
ritual and physical nature. Let me 
illustrate what I mean by a fact of my 
own experience. 

I have often thought, as I stood 
beside a death-bed still more, when 
I was consulted by a patient for whom 
I foresaw that death-bed within the space 
of a few months how strange is the 
opposition between the spiritual and 
bodily life of man. I see a fellow- 
creature on the point of being submitted 
to the most momentous change, but 
wholly ignorant of the brief period still 
allowed for preparation. To me, the 
contracted limits of the course by which 
my patient is separated from the great 
ordeal is matter of absolute certainty. 
And yet that knowledge, which for 
myself I should desire above many 
added years of life, I must not only 
not communicate to the one so deeply 
interested, but (within the limit of 
actual deception) studiously withhold. 
I have undertaken to give advice with 

The Boundaries of Science. 


reference to bodily health, and I feel, 
as I suppose you would feel in my 
place, no hesitation as to the neglect of 
any consideration, however superior in 
intrinsic importance, calculated to inter- 
fere with the object concerning which 
my advice is sought. 

Philoc. No doubt you are called in as 
a physician, and you must not, as an 
honest man, act as a priest. 

Philal. You have expressed in a few 
words the substance of what I have 
been urging all along. You cannot, 
then, ask of the physician, in a larger 
sense, to act otherwise than as a phy- 
sician 1 

Philoc. If, only, he does not forget 
that the priest has his appointed part 
also ! 

Philal. There is the danger of my pro- 
fession, and still more that of my fellow- 
students. I do not underrate it. But, 
just as I am certain that, in a world of 
order and law, it must be better for the 
whole being of man that one class 
should attend exclusively to his physical 
sufferings, so I believe that it is advan- 
tageous to truth, that one set of thinkers 
should attend exclusively to physical 

Philoc. Oh, Philalethes, I cannot 
answer such arguments otherwise than 
by the protest of my whole nature ! If 
the study of the creation is to lead us 
away from the Creator ; if the observa- 
tion of law obliterates the view of the 
Lawgiver ; if "ex majore lumine na- 
" turae et reseratione viarum sensus 
" aliquid incredulitatis et noctis animis 
"nostris erga divina mysteria oboria- 
" tur ;" then, I can only say, the sooner 
that study is abandoned, the sooner that 
path is closed, the better. 

Philal. A danger which I and my 
fellow-students cannot contemplate too 
anxiously ! But for you, and men of 
your tastes and interests, it is needful to 
look to the other side of the question. 
You, who look at nature simply for the 
beauty of nature, have you ever reflected 
what a different world you would in- 
habit but for the labours of the man of 
science 1 I am not, of course, speaking 
of material advantage. But take the 

No. 8. VOL. u. 

oldest and most complete of the sciences 
astronomy, and compare the objects 
which every night presents to our eyes, 
as seen with and without its illumination. 
What were they to the eye of the wisest 
man of antiquity? Read the descrip- 
tion of the eight whorls of the distaff 
of the universe, in the Eepublic of 
Plato, and remember that where he saw 
this confusion of concentric whorls and 
unknown impulses, you explore depths 
of space the remoteness of which thought 
refuses to conceive, and find those 
abysses filled with innumerable worlds, 
moved by the same power which de- 
taches the withered leaf from its stalk, 
which moulds the faintest streak of 
vapour that we can scarcely distinguish 
against the sky. That he needed no 
such symbol as the law of gravitation to 
embody a conviction of one ruling power 

"Spreads undivided, operates unspent" 

I readily believe ; but, having that 
inward conviction, do we gain nothing 
by the outward type ? In one word, 
does it make no difference whether 
we are shackled by a delusion of man, 
or in contact with an idea of God? 
Now this Divine idea is to you, and to 
men far less scientific than you, a 
material of thought, a belief which there 
is no more choice about receiving than 
there is about breathing oxygen. What 
was confused and indistinct to the 
finest genius of antiquity is orderly 
and harmonious to the most ordinary 
mind of to-day. I do not say that the 
deep significance of the law which is 
thus revealed to us is appreciated by 
every one who even reflects upon it ; 
but I do assert that no mind can receive 
so grand an idea, even partially, without 
being in some degree enlarged by it, 
even if they do not see in it, what it 
seems to me to contain, a type and pro- 
phecy of the obedience which man shall 
yield to his Creator when harmony with 
the will of the Creator shall become the 
triumphant motive of his whole being, 
and law shall reign as certainly over 
every movement of his spirit, as over 
the orbits of the planets. 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

Philoc. But that idea is no offspring 
of science, Philalethes. 

Phildl. Not the idea, but the sym- 
bol in which it is embodied. 

Philoc. But it is exactly that habit 
of mind, that readiness to find the 
spiritual in the material, that seems to 
me wanting in scientific men. They 
look at, not through, the window. 

Philal. The window is their work. 
What lies beyond is without the bound- 
aries of science. The tendency of early 
science is. to forget those boundaries ; the 
science of our day, in guarding perhaps 
too anxiously against this error, refuses 
to take cognizance of what lies beyond 
them. I anticipate for the maturity 
of thought a combination of what is 
right in both these tendencies, as I 
hope in my own age, to return to what 
was most precious in the feelings of the 
child, without losing anything of what 
was gained by the experience of the 
man. Meantime, do not forget that our 
debt is not small to those scientific men 
who possess least of this spirit who 
would regard any inclination to look 

upon the material world as the expres- 
sion and symbol of the spiritual, as 
mere idle dreaming. You owe them 
this, that, while they spend laborious 
years in the painful elaboration of some 
new view of nature, they are translating 
for you a symbol, in which you may be 
most certain no conception of their own 
has mingled. If the result of their 
operations contain an element so care- 
fully eliminated from the crucible in 
which the fusion was made, we may 
be perfectly certain that that element 
was a constituent part of the original 

Philoc. But tell me how you would 
reconcile with other and more important 
views of truth any theory which makes 
man the product of the lower tendencies 
of the animal world 1 ? Suppose it granted 
that the author of such a hypothesis is 
not bound to follow me to that ground, 
still, as I know you must be ready to 
take that point of' view, do you not 
refuse to accompany me there. 

Philal. On a future occasion I shall 
be very happy to do so. 





ALL dwellers in and about London 
are, alas, too well acquainted with that 
never-to-be-enough-hated change which 
we have to undergo once at least in 
every spring. As each succeeding win- 
ter wears away, the same thing happens 
to us. 

For some time we do not trust the 
fair lengthening days, and cannot believe 
that the dirty pair of sparrows who live 
opposite our window are really making 
love and going to build, notwithstanding 
all their twittering. But morning after 
morning rises fresh and gentle ; there is 
no longer any vice in the air ; we drop 
our over-coats ; we rejoice in the green 

shoots which the privet hedge is making 
in the square garden, and hail the re- 
turning tender-pointed leaves of the 
plane trees as friends ; we go out of 
our way to walk through Covent Garden 
market to see the ever-brightening show 
of flowers from the happy country. 

This state of things goes on sometimes 
for a few days only, sometimes for weeks, 
till we make sure that we are safe for 
this spring at any rate. Don't we wish we 
may get it ! Sooner or later, but sure 
sure as Christmas bills, or the income- 
tax, or anything, if there be anything, 
surer than these conies the morning 
when we are suddenly conscious as soon 
as we rise that there is something the 
matter. We do not feel comfortable in our 
clothes ; nothing tastes quite as it 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


should at breakfeast ; though the day 
looks bright enough, there is a fierce 
dusty taint about it as we look out 
through windows, which no instinct 
now prompts us to throw open, as it has 
done every day for the last month. 

But it is only when- we open our doors 
and issue into the street, that the hateful 
reality comes right home to us. All 
moisture, and softness, and pleasantness 
has gone clean out of the air since last 
night ; we seem to inhale yards of horse- 
hair instead of satin ; our skins dry up ; 
our eyes, and hair, and whiskers, and 
clothes are soon filled with loathsome 
dust, and our nostrils with the reek of 
the great city. We glance at the weather- 
cock on the nearest steeple and see that 
it points N.E. And so long as the 
change lasts we carry about with us 
a feeling of anger and impatience as 
though we personally were being ill- 
treated. We could have borne with it 
well enough in November ; it would 
have been natural, and all in the day's 
work, in March ; but now, when Rotten- 
row is beginning to be crowded, when 
long lines of pleasure-vans are leaving 
town on Monday mornings for Hampton 
Court or the poor remains of dear Ep- 
ping Forest, when the exhibitions are 
open or about to open, when the reli- 
gious public is up, or on its way up, 
for May meetings, when the Thames 
is already sending up faint warnings of 
what we may expect as soon as his 
dirty old life's blood shall have been 
thoroughly warmed up, and the Ship, 
and Trafalgar, and Star and Garter are 
in full swing at the antagonist poles of 
the cockney system, we do feel that this 
blight which has come over us and 
everything is an insult, and that while 
it lasts, as there is nobody who can be 
made particularly responsible for it, we are 
justified in going about in general dis- 
gust, and ready to quarrel with anybody 
we may meet on the smallest pretext. 

This sort of east- windy state is per- 
haps the best physical analogy for 'that 
mental one in which our hero now found 
himself. The real crisis was over ; he 
had managed to pass through the eye of 
the storm, and drift for the present at 

least into the skirts of it, where he lay 
rolling under bare poles, comparatively 
safe, but without any power as yet to 
get the ship well in hand, and make 
her obey her helm. The storm might 
break over him again at any minute, 
and would find him almost as helpless 
as ever. 

For he could not follow Drysdale's 
advice at once, and break off his visits 
to "The Choughs" altogether. He 
went back again after a day or two, 
but only for short visits ; he never 
stayed behind now after the other 
men left the bar, and avoided interviews 
with Patty alone as diligently as he had 
sought them before. .She was puzzled 
at his change of manner, and, not being 
able to account for it, was piqued, and 
ready to revenge herself and pay him out 
in the hundred little ways which the 
least practised of her sex know how to 
employ for the discipline of any of the 
inferior or trousered half of the creation. 
If she had been really in love with him, 
it would have been a different matter ; 
but she was not. In the last six weeks 
she had certainly often had visions of 
the pleasures of being a lady and keep- 
ing servants, and riding in a carriage 
like the squires' and rectors' wives and 
daughters about her home. She had a 
liking, even a sentiment for him, which 
might very well have grown into some- 
thing dangerous before long ; but as yet 
it was not more than skin deep. Of late, 
indeed, she had been much more fright- 
ened than attracted by the conduct of her 
admirer, and really felt it a relief, not- 
withstanding her pique, when he retired 
into the elder brother sort of state. Eut 
she would have been more than woman 
if she had not resented the change ; and 
so, very soon the pangs of jealousy were 
added to his other troubles. Other men 
were beginning to frequent " The 
Choughs" regularly. Drysdale, besides 
dividing with Tom the prestige of being an 
original discoverer, was by far the largest 
.customer. St. Cloud came, and brought 
Chanter with him, to whom Patty* was 
actually civil, not because she liked him 
at all, but because she saw that it made 
Tom furious. Though he could not fix 



Tom Brown at Oxford. 

on any one man in particular, lie felt 
that mankind in general were gaining on 
him. In his better moments indeed he 
often wished that she would take the 
matter into her own hands and throw 
him over for good and all ; but keep 
away from the place altogether he could 
not, and often, when he fancied himself 
on the point of doing it, a pretty toss of 
her head or kind look of her eyes would 
scatter all his good resolutions to the 
four winds. 

And so the days dragged on, and he 
dragged on through them; hot fits of 
conceit alternating in him with cold fits 
of despondency and mawkishness and 
discontent with everything and every- 
body, which were all the more intoler- 
able from their entire strangeness. In- 
stead of seeing the bright side of all 
things, he seemed to be looking at crea- 
tion through yellow spectacles, and saw 
faults and blemishes in all his acquaint- 
ance which had been till now invisible. 

But, the more he was inclined to de- 
preciate all other men, the more he felt 
that there was one to whom he had been 
grossly unjust. And, as he recalled all 
that had passed, he began to do justice to 
the man who had not flinched from 
warning him and braving him, who he 
felt had been watching over him, and 
trying to guide him straight when he 
had lost all power or will to keep 
straight himself. 

From this time the dread increased 
on him lest any of the other men should 
find out his quarrel with Hardy. Their 
utter ignorance of it encouraged him in 
the hope that it might all pass off like 
a bad dream. While it remained a mat- 
ter between them alone, he felt that all 
might come straight, though he could 
not think how. He began to loiter by 
the entrance of the passage which led to 
Hardy's rooms ; sometimes he would 
find something to say to his scout or 
bedmaker which took him into the back 
regions outside Hardy's window, glancing 
at it sideways as he stood giving his 
orders. There it was, wide open, gene- 
rally he hardly knew whether he hoped 
to catch a glimpse of the owner, but he 
did hope that Hardy might hear his 

voice. He watched him in chapel and 
hall furtively, but constantly, and was 
always fancying what he was doing and 
thinking about. Was it as painful an 
effort to Hardy, he wondered, as to him 
to go on speaking, as if nothing had 
happened, when they met at the boats, 
as they did now again almost daily (for 
Diogenes was bent on training some of 
the torpids for next year), and yet never 
to look one another in the face; to live 
together as usual during part of every 
day, and yet to feel all the time that a 
great wall had arisen between them, 
more hopelessly dividing them for the 
time than thousands of miles of ocean 
or continent 1 

Amongst other distractions which 
Tom tried at this crisis of his life, was 
reading. For three or four days run- 
ning he really worked hard very hard, 
if we were to reckon by the number of 
hours he spent in his own rooms over 
his books with his oak sported, hard, 
even though we should only reckon by 
results. For, though scarcely an hour 
passed that he was not balancing on the 
hind legs of his chair with a vacant 
look in his eyes, and thinking of any- 
thing but Greek roots or Latin con- 
structions, yet on the whole he managed 
to get through a good deal, and one 
evening, for the first time since his 
quarrel with Hardy, felt a sensation of 
real comfort it hardly amounted to 
pleasure as he closed his Sophocles 
some hour or so after hall, having just 
finished the last of the Greek plays 
which he meant to take in for his first 
examination. He leaned back in his 
chair and sat for a few minutes, letting 
his thoughts follow their own bent. 
They soon took to going wrong, and he 
jumped up in fear lest he should be 
drifting back into the black stormy sea 
in the trough of which he had been 
labouring so lately, and which he felt 
he was by no means clear of yet. At 
first he caught up his cap and gown as 
though he were going out. There was 
a wine party at one of Ms acquaintance's 
rooms ; or he could go and smoke a 
cigar in the pool room, or at any one 
of a dozen other places. On second 

Tom Broum at Oxford. 


thoughts, however, he threw his acade- 
micals back on to the sofa, and went 
to his book-case. The reading had paid 
so well that evening that he resolved to 
go on with it. He had no particular 
object in selecting one book more than 
another, and so took down carelessly 
the first that came to hand. 

It happened to be a volume of Plato, 
and opened of its own accord in the 
Apology. He glanced at a few lines. 
What a flood of memories they called 
up ! This was almost the last book he 
had read at school ; and teacher, and 
friends, and lofty oak-shelved library 
stood out before him at once. Then 
the blunders that he himself and others 
had made rushed through his mind, and 
he almost burst iflto a laugh as he 
wheeled his chair round to the window, 
and began reading where he had opened, 
encouraging every thought of the old 
times when he first read that marvellous 
defence, and throwing himself back into 
them with all his might. And still, as he 
read, forgotten words of wise comment, 
and strange thoughts of wonder and 
longing, came back to him. The great 
truth which he had been led to the brink 
of in those early days rose in all its awe 
and all its attractiveness before him. 
He leant back in his chair, and gave 
himself up to his thought ; and how 
strangely that thought bore on the strug- 
gle which had been raging in him of 
late ; how an answer seemed to be trem- 
bling to come out of it to all the cries, 
now defiant, now plaintive, which had 
gone up out of his heart in this time of 
trouble ! For his thought was of that 
spirit, distinct from himself, and yet 
communing with his inmost soul, always 
dwelling in him, knowing him better 
than he knew himself, never mislead- 
ing him, always leading him to light 
and truth, of which the old philosopher 
spoke. "The old heathen, Socrates, did 
actually believe that there can be no 
question about it;" he thought, "Has 
not the testimony of the best men through 
these two thousand years borne witness 
that he was right that he did not be- 
lieve a lie ? That was what we were 
told. Surely I don't mistake ! Were 

we not told, too, or did I dream it, that 
what was true for him is true for every 
man for me? That there is a spirit 
dwelling in me, striving with me, ready 
to lead me into all truth if I will submit 
to his guidance V 

" Ay ! submit, submit, there's the 
rub ! Give yourself up to his guidance ! 
Throw up the reins, and say, you've 
made a mess of it. Well, why not? 
Haven't I made a mess of it? Am I 
fit to hold the reins ? " 

" Not I," he got up and began walk- 
ing about his rooms, " I give it up." 

" Give it up!" he went on presently; 
" yes, but to whom ? Not to the demon, 
spirit, whatever it was, who took up his 
abode in the old Athenian at least so 
he said, and so I believe. No, no ! 
Two thousand years and all that they 
have seen have not passed over the world 
to leave us just where he was left. We 
want no daemons or spirits. And yet 
the old heathen was guided right, and 
what can a man want more ? and who 
ever wanted guidance more than I now 
here in this room at this minute ? 
I give up the reins ; who will take them ? " 
And so there came on him one of those 
seasons when a man's thoughts cannot 
be followed in words. A sense of awe 
came on him, and over him, and wrap- 
ped him round ; awe at a presence of 
which he was becoming suddenly con- 
scious, into which he seemed to have 
wandered, and yet which he felt must 
have been there, around him, in his 
own heart and soul, though he knew it 
not. There was hope and longing in 
his heart mingling with the fear of that 
presence, but withal the old reckless 
and daring feeling which he knew so 
well, still bubbling up untamed, un- 
tamable it seemed to him. 

The room stifled him now; so he 
threw on his cap and gown, and hurried 
down into the quadrangle. It was very 
quiet ; probably there were not a dozen 
men in college. He walked across to thn 
low dark entrance of the passage which 
led to Hardy's rooms, and there paused. 
Was he there by chance, or was he 
guided there ? Yes, this was the right 
way for him, he had no doubt now as to 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

that ; down the dark passage, and into 
the room he knew so well and what 
then ? He took a short turn or two 
before the entrance. How could he he 
sure that Hardy was alone 1 ? And, if 
not, to go in would be worse than use- 
less. If he were alone, what should he 
say? After all, must he go in there? 
was there no way but that ? 

The college clock struck a quarter to 
seven. It was his usual time for " The 
Choughs ;" the house would be quiet 
now ; was there not one looking out for 
him there who would be grieved if he 
did not come? After all, might not 
that be his way, for this night at least ? 
He might bring pleasure to one human 
being by going there at once. That he 
knew; what else could he be sure of? 

At this moment he heard Hardy's 
door open, and a voice saying, " Good 
night," and the next Grey came out of 
the passage, and was passing close to 

" Join yourself to him." The impulse 
came so strongly into Tom's mind this 
time, that it was like a voice speaking to 
him. He yielded to it, and, stepping 
to Grey's side, wished him good even- 
ing. The other returned his salute in 
his shy way, and was hurrying on, but 
Tom kept by him. 

" Have you been reading with 
Hardy?" . 


" How is he? I have not seen any- 
thing of him for some time." 

" Oh, very well, I think," said Grey, 
glancing sideways at his questioner, and 
adding, after a moment, " I have won- 
dered rather not to see you there of 

" Are you going to your school ?" said 
Tom, breaking away from the subject. 

" Yes, and I am rather late ; I must 
make haste on ; good night." 

"Will you let me go with you to- 
night? It would be a real kindness. 
Indeed," he added, as he saw how 
embarrassing his proposal was to Grey, 
" I will do whatever you tell me you 
don't know how grateful I shall be to 
you. Do let me go just for to-night. 
Try me once." 

Grey hesitated, turned his head sharply 
once or twice as they walked on together, 
and then said with something like a 

" I don't know, I'm sure. Did you ever 
teach in a night-school ? " 

" .No, but I have taught in the Sunday- 
school at home sometimes. Indeed, I 
will do whatever you tell me." 

" Oh ! but this is not at all like a 
Sunday-school. They are a very rough, 
wild lot." 

"The rougher the better," said Tom; 
"I shall know how to manage them then." 

" But you must not -really be rough 
with them." 

"No, I won't; I didn't mean that," 
said Torn hastily, for he saw his mistake 
at once. " I shall takfe it as a great favour, 
if you will let me go with you to-night. 
You won't repent it, I'm sure." 

Grey did not seem at all sure of this, 
but saw no means of getting rid of his 
companion, and so they walked on to- 
gether and turned down a long narrow 
court in the lowest part of the town. At 
the doors of the houses labouring men, 
mostly Irish, lounged or stood about, 
smoking and talking to one another, or 
to the women who leant out of the win- 
dows, or passed to and fro on their 
various errands of business or pleasure. 
A group of half-grown lads were playing 
at pitch-farthing at the farther end, and 
all over the court were scattered chil- 
dren of all ages, ragged and noisy little 
creatures most of them, on whom paternal 
and maternal admonitions and cuffs were 
constantly being expended, and to all 
appearances in vain. 

At the sight of Grey a shout arose 
amongst the smaller boys, of " Here's 
the teacher ! " and they crowded round 
him and Tom as they went up the court. 
Several of the men gave him a half- 
surly half-respectful nod, as he passed 
along, wishing them good evening. 
The rest merely stared at him and his 
companion. They stopped at a door 
which Grey opened, and led the way 
into the passage of an old tumble-down 
cottage, on the ground floor of which 
were two low rooms which served for 
the school-rooms. .!*.'' 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


A hard-featured, middle-aged woman, 
who kept the house, was waiting, and 
said to Grey, "Mr. Jones told me to 
say, sir, he would not be here to-night, 
as he has got a bad fever case so you 
was to take only the lower classes, sir, he 
said ; and the policeman would be near 
to keep out the big boys if you wanted 
him ; shall I go and tell him to step 
round, sir?" 

Grey looked embarrassed for a mo- 
ment, and then said, " No, never mind, 
you can go ;" and then turning to Tom, 
added, "Jones is the curate ; he won't 
be here to-night ; and some of the bigger 
boys are very noisy and troublesome, 
and only come to make a noise. How- 
ever, if they come we must do our 

Meantime, the crowd of small ragged 
urchins had. filled the room, and were 
swarming on to the benches and squab- 
bling for the copy-books which were 
laid out on the thin desks. Grey set to 
work to get them into order, and soon 
the smallest were draughted off into the 
inner room with slates and spelling- 
books, and the bigger ones, some dozen 
in number, settled to their writing. 
Tom seconded him so readily, and 
seemed so much at home, that Grey felt 
quite relieved. 

" You seem to get on capitally," he 
said ; " I will go into the inner room to 
the little ones, and you stay and take 
these. There/are the class-books when 
they have done their copies," and so 
went off into the inner room and closed 
the door. 

My readers must account for the fact 
as they please ; I only state that Tom, 
as he bent over one after another of the 
pupils, and guided the small grubby 
hands, which clutched the inky pens 
with cramped fingers, and went splutter- 
ing and blotching along the lines of the 
copy-books, felt the yellow scales drop- 
ping from his eyes, and more warmth 
coming back into his heart than he had 
known there for many a day. 

All went on well inside, notwith- 
standing a few small outbreaks between 
the scholars, but every now and then 
mud was thrown against the window, and 

noises outside and in the passage threat- 
ened some interruption. At last, when 
the writing was finished, the copy-books 
cleared away, and the class-books dis- 
tributed, the door opened, and two or three 
big boys of fifteen or sixteen lounged 
in, with their hands in their pockets 
and their caps on. There was an in- 
solent look about them, which set Tom's 
back up at once ; however, he kept his 
temper, made them take their caps off, 
and, as they said they wanted to read 
with the rest, let them ta:ke their places 
on the benches. 

But now came the tug of war. He 
could not keep his eyes on the whole 
lot at once, and, no sooner did he fix 
his attention on the stammering reader 
for the time being and try to help him, 
than anarchy broke out all round him. 
Small stones and shot were thrown 
about, and cries arose from the smaller 
fry, "Please, sir, he's been and poured 
some ink down my back," " He's stole 
my book, sir," He's gone and stuck a 
pin in my leg." The evil-doers were so 
cunning that -it was impossible to catch 
them ; but, as he was hastily turning 
in his own mind what to do, a cry arose, 
and one of the benches went suddenly 
over backwards on to the floor, carrying 
with it its whole freight of boys, except 
two of the bigger ones, who were the 
evident authors of the mishap. 

Tom sprang at the one nearest him, 
seized him by the collar, hauled him 
into the passage, and sent him out of 
the street-door with a sound kick ; and 
then, rushing back, 'caught hold of the 
second, who went down on his back and 
clung round Tom's legs, shouting for 
help to his remaining companions, and 
struggling and swearing. It was all the 
work of a moment, and now the door 
opened, and Grey appeared from the 
inner room. Tom left off hauling his 
prize towards the passage, and felt' and 
looked very foolish. 

"This fellow, and another whom I 
have turned out, upset that form with 
all the little boys on it," he said apolo- 

" It's a lie, 'twasn't me," roared the 
captive, to whom Tom administered a 


Tom Broum at Oxford. 

sound box on the ear, while the small 
boys, rubbing different parts of their 
bodies, chorused, "'Twas him, teacher, 
'twas him," and heaped further charges 
of pinching, pin-sticking, and other 
atrocities on him. 

Grey astonished Tom by his firmness. 
" Don't strike him again," he said. "Kow, 
go out at once, or I will send for your 
father." The fellow got up, and, after 
standing a moment and considering his 
chance of successful resistance to phy- 
sical force in the person of Tom, and 
moral in that of Grey, slunk out. " You 
must go too, Murphy," went on Grey to 
another of the intruders. 

"Oh, your honour, let me bide. I'll 
be as quiet as a mouse," pleaded the 
Irish boy ; and Tom would have given 
in, but Grey was unyielding. 

" You were turned out last week, and 
Mr. Jones said you were not to come 
back for a fortnight." 

" "Well, good night to your honour," 
said Murphy, and took himself off. 

"The rest may stop," said Grey. "You 
had better take the inner room now ; I 
will stay here." 

" I'm very sorry," said Tom. 
" You couldn't help it ; no one can 
manage those two. Murphy is quite 
different^ but I should have spoiled him 
if I had let him stay now." 

The remaining half hour passed off 
quietly. Tom retired into the inner 
room, and took up Grey's lesson, which 
he had been reading to the boys from a 
large Bible with pictures. Out of con- 
sideration for their natural and acquired 
restlessness, the little fellows, who were 
all between eight and eleven years old, 
were only kept sitting at their pot- 
hooks and spelling for the first hour, 
and then were allowed to crowd round 
the teacher, who read and talked to them 
and showed them the pictures. Tom 
found the Bible open at the story of the 
prodigal son, and read it out to them 
as they clustered round his knees. 
Some of the outside ones fidgeted 
about a little, but those close round 
him listened with ears, and eyes, and 
bated breath; and two little blue-eyed 
boys without shoes their ragged clothes 

concealed by long pinafores which their 
widowed mother had put on clean to send 
them to school in leaned against him 
and looked up in his face, and his heart 
warmed to the touch and the look. 
" Please, teacher, read it again," they 
said when he finished ; so he read it 
again, and sighed when Grey came in 
and lighted a candle (for the room was 
getting dark) and said it was time for 

A few collects, and the Lord's Prayer, 
in which all the young voices joined, 
drowning for a minute the noises from 
the court outside, finished the evening's 
schooling. The children trooped out, 
and Grey went to speak to the woman 
who kept the house. Tom, left to him- 
self, felt strangely happy, and, for some- 
thing to do, took the snuffers and com- 
menced a crusade against a large family 
of bugs, who, taking advantage of the 
quiet, came cruising out of a crack in 
the otherwise neatly papered wall. 
Some dozen had fallen on his spear 
when Grey re-appeared, and was much 
horrified at the sight. He called the 
woman, and told her to have the hole 
carefully fumigated and mended. 

" I thought we had killed them all 
long ago," he said ; " but the place is 
tumbling down." 

" It looks well enough," said Tom. 

" Yes, we have it kept as tidy as 
possible. It ought to be at least a little 
better than what the children see at 
home." And so they left the school 
and court and walked up to college. 

" Where are you going ? " Tom said, 
as they entered the gate. 

"To Hardy's rooms ; will you come 1" 

"No, not to-night," said Tom, "I 
know that you want to be reading ; I 
should only interrupt." 

" Well, good-night then," said Grey, 
and went on, leaving Tom standing in 
the porch. On the way up from the 
school he had almost made up his mind 
to go to Hardy's rooms that night. He 
longed, and yet feared to do so ; and, on 
the whole, was not sorry for an excuse. 
Their first meeting must be alone, and 
it would be a very embarrassing one for 
him at any rate. Grey, he hoped, would 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


tell Hardy of his visit to the school, 
and that would show that he was com- 
ing round, and make the meeting easier. 
His talk with Grey, too, had removed 
one great cause of uneasiness from his 
mind. It was now quite clear that he 
had no suspicion of the quarrel, and, if 
Hardy had not told him, no one else 
could know of it. 

Altogether, he strolled into the 
quadrangle a happier and sounder man 
than he had been since his first visit to 
the Choughs, and looked up and an- 
swered with his old look and voice when 
he heard his name called from one of the 
first-floor windows. 

The hailer was Drysdale, who was 
leaning out in lounging coat and velvet 
cap, and enjoying a cigar as usual, in 
the midst of the flowers of his hanging 

" You've heard the good news, I sup- 
pose ?" 

"No, what do you mean ?" 

" Why, Blake has got the Latin verse." 

" Hurra ! I'm so glad." 

" Come up and have a weed." Tom 
ran up the staircase and into Drysdale' s 
rooms, and was leaning out of the win- 
dow at his side in another minute. 

" What does he get by it ?" he said, 
" do you know?" 

" No, some books bound in Russia, I 
dare say, with the Oxford arms, and 
'Dominus illuminatio mea' on the back." 

"No money?" 

" Not much perhaps a ten'ner," an- 
swered Drysdale, " but no end of KV$OQ 
I suppose." 

" It makes it look well for his 
first, don't you think 1 But I wish he 
had got some money for it. I often 
feel very uncomfortable about that bill, 
don't you ?" 

" Not I, what's the good? It's nothing 
when you are used to it. Besides, it 
don't fall due for another month." 

"But if Blake can't meet it then?" 
said Tom. 

"Well, it will be vacation, and I'll 
trouble greasy Benjamin to catch me 

"But you don't mean to say you 
won't pay it ?" said Tom in horror. 

" Pay it ! You may trust Benjamin 
for that. He'll pull round his little usuries 

" Only we have promised to pay on 
a certain day, you know." 

" Oh, of course, that's the form. That 
only means that he can'tpinchus sooner." 

" I do hope, though, Drysdale, that 
it will be paid on the day," said Tom, 
who could not quite swallow the notion 
of forfeiting his word, even though it 
were only a promise to pay to a scoundrel. 

"All right. You've nothing to do 
with it, remember. He won't bother 
you. Besides, you can plead infancy, 
if the worst comes to the worst. There's 
such a queer old bird gone to your friend 
Hardy's rooms." 

The mention of Hardy broke the dis- 
agreeable train of thought into which 
Tom was falling, and he listened eagerly 
as Drysdale went on. 

" It was about half an hour ago. I 
was looking out here, and saw an old 
fellow come hobbling into quad on two 
sticks, in a shady blue uniform coat 
and white trousers. The kind of old 
boy you read about in books, you know : 
Commodore Trunnion, . or Uncle Toby, 
or one of that sort. Well, I watched 
him backing and filing about the quad, 
and trying one staircase and another ; 
but there was nobody about. So down 
I trotted, and went up to him for fun, 
and to see what he was after. It was as 
good as a play, if you could have seen 
it. I was ass enough to take off my 
cap and make a low bow as I came up to 
him, and he pulled oif his uniform cap 
in return, and we stood there bowing to 
one another. He was a thorough old 
gentleman, and I felt rather foolish for 
fear he should see that I expected a lark 
when I came out. But I don't think 
he had an idea of it, and only set my 
capping him down to the wonderful good 
manners of the college. So we got quite 
thick, and I piloted him across to Hardy's 
staircase in the back quad. I wanted 
him to come up and quench, but he 
declined, with many apologies. I'm 
sure he is a character." 

"He must be Hardy's father," said 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

" I shouldn't wonder. But is his 
father in the navy 1" 

" He is a retired captain." 

" Then no doubt you're right. What 
shall we do 1 Have a hand at picquet. 
Some men will be here directly. Only 
for love." 

Tom declined the proffered game, and 
went off soon after to his own rooms, a 
happier man than he had been since his 
first night at the Choughs. 



TOM rose in the morning with a pre- 
sentiment that all would be over now 
before long, and, to make his presenti- 
ment come true, resolved, before night, 
to go himself to Hardy and give in. 
All he reserved to himself was the 
liberty to do it in the manner which 
would be least painful to himself. He 
was greatly annoyed, therefore, when 
Hardy did not appear at morning chapel ; 
for he had fixed on the leaving chapel 
as the least unpleasant time in which 
to begin his confession, and was going 
to catch Hardy then, and follow him to 
his rooms. All the morning, too, in 
answer to his inquiries by his scout 
Wiggins, Hardy's scout replied that his 
master was out, or busy. He did not come 
to the boats, he did not appear in hall ; 
so that, after hall, when Tom went back 
to his own rooms, as he did at once, in- 
stead of sauntering out of college, or 
going to a wine party, he was quite out 
of heart at his bad luck, and began to 
be afraid that he would have to sleep on 
his unhealed wound another night. 

He sat down in an arm-chair, and fell 
to musing, and thought how wonderfully 
his life had been changed in these few 
short weeks. He could hardly get back 
across the gulf which separated him from 
the ' self who came back into those rooms 
after Easter, full of anticipations of the 
pleasures and delights of the coming 
summer term and vacation. To his 
own surprise he didn't seem much to 
.regret the loss of his didteaux en Espqgne, 
and felt a sort of grim satisfaction in 
their utter overthrow. 

While occupied with these thoughts, 
he heard talking on his stairs, accom- 
panied by a strange lumbering tread. 
These came nearer ; and at last stopped 
just outside his door, which opened in 
another moment, and Wiggins an- 

" Capting Hardy, sir." 

Tom jumped to his legs, and felt 
himself colour painfully. " Here, Wig- 
gins," said he, " wheel round that arm- 
.chair for Captain Bardy. I am so very 
glad to see you, sir," and he hastened 
round himself to meet the old gentle- 
man, holding out his hand, which the 
visitor took very cordially, as soon as 
he had passed his heavy stick to his 
left hand, and balanced himself safely 
upon it. 

" Thank you, sir ; thank you," said 
the old man after a few moments' pause, 
" I find your companion ladders rather 
steep;" and then he sat down with 
some difficulty. 

Tom took the Captain's stick and 
undress cap, and put them reverentially 
on his sideboard ; and then, to get rid 
of some little nervousness which he 
couldn't help feeling, bustled to his 
cupboard, and helped Wiggins to place 
glasses and biscuits on the table. 
" Now, sir, what will you take 1 I have 
port, sherry, and whiskey here, and can 
get you anything else. - Wiggins, run 
to Hinton's and get some dessert." 

"No dessert, thank you, for me," 
said the Captain ; " I'll take a cup of 
coffee, or a glass of grog, or anything 
you have ready. Don't open wine for 
me, pray, sir." 

" Oh, it is all the better for being 
opened," said Tom, working away at a 
bottle of sherry with his corkscrew 
" and, Wiggins, get some coffee and an- 
chovy toast in a quarter of an hour ; 
and just put out some tumblers and 
toddy ladles, and bring up boiling 
water with the coffee." 

While making his hospitable prepa- 
rations, Tom managed to get many side- 
glances at the old man, who sat looking 
steadily and abstractedly before him 
into the fireplace, and was much struck 
and touched by the picture. The sailor 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


wore a well-preserved old undress uni- 
form coat and waistcoat, and white drill 
trousers ; he was a man of middle 
height, but gaunt and massive, and 
Tom recognised the framework of the 
long arms and grand shoulders and chest 
which he had so often admired in the 
son. His right leg was quite stiff from 
an old wound on the kneecap ; the left 
eye was sightless, and the scar of a cut- 
las travelled down the drooping lid and 
on to the weather-beaten cheek below. 
His head was high and broad, his hair 
and whiskers silver white, while the 
shaggy eyebrows were scarcely grizzled. 
His face was deeply lined, and the long 
clean-cut lower jaw, and drawn look 
about the mouth, gave a grim expres- 
sion to the face at the first glance, 
which wore off as you looked, leaving, 
however, on most men who thought 
about it, the impression which fastened 
on our hero, " An awkward man to have 
met at the head of boarders towards the 
end of the great war." 

In a minute or two Tom, having com- 
pleted his duties, faced the old sailor, 
much reassured by his covert inspection ; 
and, pouring himself out a glass of 
sherry, pushed the decanter across, and 
drank to his guest. 

" Your health, sir," he said, " and 
thank you very much for coming up ta 
see me." 

" Thank you, sir," said the Captain, 
rousing himself and filling, " I drink to 
you, sir. The fact is, I took a great 
liberty in coming up to your rooms in 
this off hand way, without calling or 
sending up, but you'll excuse it in an 
old sailor." Here the captain took to 
his glass, and seemed a little embarrassed. 
Tom felt embarrassed also, feeling that 
something was coming, and could only 
think of asking how the captain liked 
the sherry. The captain liked the 
sherry very much. Then, suddenly clear- 
ing his throat, he went on. " I felt, sir, 
that you would excuse me, for I have a 
favour to ask of you." He paused again, 
while Tom muttered something about 
great pleasure, and then went on. 
"You know my son, Mr. Brown?" 
" Yes, sir ; he has been my best friend 

up here ; I owe more to him than to any 
man in Oxford." 

The Captain's eye gleamed with plea- 
sure as he replied, "Jack is a noble 
fellow, Mr. Brown, though I say it who 
am his father. I've often promised my- 
self a cruize to Oxford since he has been 
here. I came here at last yesterday, and 
have been having a long yarn with him. 
I found there was something on his 
mind. He can't keep anything from his 
old father : and so I drew out of him 
that he loves you as David loved Jona- 
than. He made 'my old eye very dim 
while he was talking of you, Mr. Brown. 
And then I found that you two are not 
as you used to be. Some coldness 
sprung up between you ; but what about 
I couldn't get at ! Young men are often 
hasty I know I was, forty years ago 
Jack says he has been hasty with you. 
Now, that boy is all I have in the 
world, Mr. Brown. I know my boy's 
friend will like to send an old man 
home with a light heart. So I made 
up my mind to come over to you and 
ask you to make it up with Jack. I 
gave him the slip after dinner and here 
I am." 

"Oh, sir, did he really ask you to 
come to me ?" 

"ISTo, sir," said the Captain, "he did 
not I'm sorry for it I think Jack 
must be in the wrong, for he said 
he had been too hasty, and yet he 
wouldn't ask me to come to you and 
make it up. But he is young, sir ; young 
and proud. He said he couldn't move 
in it, his mind was made up ; he was 
wretched enough over it, but the move 
must come from you. And so that's 
the favour I have to ask, that you will 
make it up with Jack. It isn't often a 
young man can do such a favour to an 
old one to an old father with one son. 
You'll not feel the worse for having 
done it, if it's ever so hard to do, when 
you come to be my age." And the old 
man looked wistfully across the table, the 
muscles about his mouth quivering as 
he ended. 

Tom sprang from his chair, and 
grasped the old sailor's hand, as he' felt 
the load pass out of his heart. " Favour, 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

sir !" he said, " I have been a mad fool 
enough already in this business I 
should have been a double-dyed scoun- 
drel, like enough, by this time but for 
your son, and I've quarrelled with him 
for stopping me at the pit's mouth. 
Favour ! If God will, I'll prove some- 
how where the favour lies, and what I 
owe to him ; and to you, sir, for coming 
to me to-night. Stop here two minutes, 
sir, and I'll run down and bring him 

Tom tore away to Hardy's door and 
knocked. There was no pausing in the 
passage now. " Come in." He opened 
the door but did not enter, and for a 
moment or two could not speak. The 
rush of associations which the sight of 
the well-known old rickety furniture, and 
the figure which was seated, book in 
hand, with its back to the door and its 
feet up against one side of the mantel- 
piece, called up, choked him. 

" May I come in 1" he said at last. 

He saw the figure give a start, and the 
book trembled a little, but then came 
the answer, slow but firm 

" I have not changed my opinion." 

" No ; dear old boy, but I have," and 
Tom rushed across to his friend, dearer 
than ever to him now, and threw his' 
arm round his neck ; and, if the un- 
English truth must, out, had three parts 
of a mind to kiss the rough face which 
was now working with strong emotion. 

" Thank God ! " said Hardy, as he 
grasped the hand which hung over his 

" And now come over to my rooms ; 
your father is there waiting for us." 

" What, the dear old governor 1 That's 
what he has been after, is it? I couldn't 
think where he could have hove to, as 
he would say." 

Hardy put on his cap, and the two 
hurried back to Tom's rooms, the lightest 
hearts in the University of Oxford. 



THERE are moments in the life of the 
most self-contained and sober of us all, 

when we fairly bubble over, like a full 
bottle of champagne with the cork out ; 
and this was one of them for our 
hero, who, however, be it remarked, 
was neither self-contained nor sober by 
nature. When they got back to his 
rooms, he really hardly knew what to do 
to give vent to his lightness of heart ; 
and Hardy, though self-contained and 
sober enough in general, was on this 
occasion almost as bad as his friend. 
They rattled on, talking out the thing 
which -came uppermost, whatever the 
subject might chance to be ; but, whether 
grave or gay, it always ended after a 
minute or two in jokes not always good, 
and chaff, and laughter. The poor cap- 
tain was a little puzzled at first, and 
made one or two endeavours to turn the 
talk into improving channels. But very 
soon he saw that Jack was thoroughly 
happy, and that was always enough for 
him. So he listened to one and the 
other, joining cheerily in the laugh 
whenever he could ; and, when he 
couldn't catch the joke, looking like a 
benevolent old lion, and making as much 
belief that he had understood it all as 
the simplicity and truthfulness of his 
character would allow. 

The spirits of the two friends seemed 
inexhaustible. They lasted out the 
bottle of sherry which Tom had un- 
corked, and the remains -of a bottle of 
his famous port. He had tried hard to 
be allowed to open a fresh bottle, but 
the captain had made such a point of 
his not doing so, that he had given in 
for hospitality's sake. They lasted out 
the coffee and anchovy toast ; after 
which the captain made a little effort 
at moving, which was supplicatingly 
stopped by Tom. 

" Oh, pray don't go, Captain Hardy. 
I haven't been so happy for months. 
Besides, I must brew you a glass of 
grog. I pride myself on my brew. 
Your son there will tell you that I am 
a dead hand at it. Here, Wiggins, a 
lemon ! " shouted Tom. 

" Well, for once in a way, I suppose. 
Eh, Jack ?" said the captain, looking at 
his son. 

" Oh yes, father. You mayn't know 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


it Brown, but, if there is one thing 
harder to do than another, it is to get 
an old sailor like my father to take a 
glass of grog at night." 

The captain laughed a little laugh, 
and shook his thick stick at his son, who 
went on. 

"And as for asking him to take a 
pipe with it " 

" Dear me," said Tom, " I quite for- 
got. I really beg your pardon, Captain 
Hardy ; " and he put down the lemon 
he was squeezing, and produced a box 
of cigars. 

"It's all Jack's nonsense, sir," said 
the captain, holding out his hand, 
nevertheless, for the box. 

" Now, father, don't be absurd," inter- 
rupted Hardy, snatching the box away 
from him. " You might as well give 
him a glass of absinthe. He is church- 
warden at home, and can't smoke any- 
thing but a long clay." 

" I'm very sorry I haven't one here, 
but I can send out in a minute." And 
Tom was making for the door to shout 
for "Wiggins. 

" No, don't call. I'll fetch some from 
my rooms." 

When Hardy left the room, Tom 
squeezed away at his lemon, and was 
preparing himself for a speech to Cap- 
tain Hardy full of confession and grati- 
tude. But the captain was before him, 
and led the conversation into a most 
unexpected channel. 

"I suppose, now, Mr. Brown," he 
began, " you don't find any difficulty in 
construing your Thucydides 1 " 

" Indeed I do, sir," said Tom, laugh- 
ing. " I find him a very tough old cus- 
tomer, except in the simplest narrative." 

" For my part," said the captain, " I 
can't get on at all, I find, without a trans- 
lation. But you see, sir, I had none of 
the advantages which you young men 
have up here. In fact, Mr. Brown, I 
didn't begin Greek till Jack was nearly 
ten years old." The captain in his 
secret heart was prouder of his partial 
victory over the Greek tongue in his old 
age, than of his undisputed triumphs 
over the French in his youth, and was 
not averse to talking of it. 

" I wonder that you ever began it at 
all, sir," said Tom. 

' " You wouldn't wonder if you knew 
how an uneducated man like me feels, 
when he comes to a place like Oxford." 

" Uneducated, sir ! " said Tom. "Why 
your education has been worth twice as 
much, I'm sure, as any we get here." 

" No, sir ; we never learnt anything 
in the navy when I was a youngster, 
except a little rule-of-thumb mathe- 
matics. One picked up a sort of smat- 
tering of a language or two knocking 
about the world, but no grammatical 
knowledge, nothing scientific. If a boy 
doesn't get a method, he is beating to 
windward in a crank craft all his 
life. He hasn't got any regular place 
to stow away what he gets into his 
brains, and so it lies tumbling about in 
the hold, and he loses it, or it gets 
damaged and is never ready for use. 
You see what I mean, Mr. Brown 1 ?" 

" Yes, sir. But I'm afraid we don't 
all of us get much method up here. Do 
you really enjoy reading Thucydides now, 
Captain Hardy?" 

" Indeed I do, sir, very much," said 
the Captain. " There's a great deal in 
his history to interest an old sailor, you 
know. I dare say, now, that I enjoy 
those parts about the sea-fights more 
than you do." The Captain looked at 
Tom as if he had made an audacious 

" I am sure you do, sir," said Tom, 

" Because you see, Mr. Brown," said 
the Captain, " when one has been in 
that sort of thing oneself, one likes to 
read how people in other times managed, 
and to think what one would have 
done in their place. I don't believe 
that the Greeks just at that time were 
very resolute fighters, though. Nelson 
or Collingwood would have finished that 
war in a year or two." 

" Not with triremes, do you think, 
sir V said Tom. 

" Yes, sir, with any vessels which 
were to be had," said the Captain. 
" But you are right about triremes. 
It has always been a great puzzle to 
me how those triremes could have been 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

worked. How do you understand the 
three banks of oars, Mr. Brown?" 

" Well, sir, I suppose they must have 
been one above the other somehow." 

" But the upper bank must have had 
oars twenty feet long and more in that 
case," said the Captain. " You must 
allow for leverage, you see." 

" Of course, sir. When one comes 
to think of it, it isn't easy to see how 
they were manned and worked," said 

" Now my notion about triremes " 
began the Captain, holding the head of 
Ms stick with both hands, and looking 
across at Tom. 

" Why, father !" cried Hardy, re- 
turning at the moment with the pipes, 
and catching the Captain's last word, 
" on one of your hobby horses already ! 
You're not safe ! I can't leave you 
for two minutes. Here's a long pipe 
for you. How in the world did he get 
on triremes 1" 

" I hardly know," said Tom, " but I 
want to hear what Captain Hardy thinks 
about them. You were saying, sir, that 
the upper oars must have been twenty 
feet long at least." 

" My notion is " said the Captain, 
taking the pipe and tobacco-pouch from 
his son's hand. 

" Stop one moment," said Hardy ; 
" I found Blake at my rooms, and 
asked him to come over here. You 
don't object?" 

" Object, my dear fellow ! I'm much 
obliged to you. Now, Hardy, would 
you like to have any one else ? I can 
send in a minute." 

" No one, thank you." 

" You won't stand on ceremony now, 
will you, with me ?" said Tom. 

" You see I haven't." 

" And you never will again?" 

" No, never. Now, father, you can 
heave ahead about those oars." 

The Captain went on charging his 
pipe, and proceeded : " You see, Mr. 
Brown, they must have been at least 
twenty feet long, because, if you allow 
the lowest bank of oars to have been 
three feet above the water-line, which 
even Jack thinks they must have been " 

" Certainly. That height at least to 
do any good," said Hardy. 

" Not that I think Jack's opinion 
worth much on the point," went on his 

" It's very ungrateful of you, then, to 
say so, father," said Hardy, " after all 
the time I've wasted trying to make it 
all clear to you." 

" I don't say that Jack's is not a good 
opinion on most things, Mr. Brown," 
said the Captain ; " but he is all at sea 
about triremes. He believes that the 
men of the uppermost bank rowed 
somehow like lightermen on the Thames, 
walking up and down." 

" I object to your statement of my 
faith, father," said Hardy. 

" Now you know, Jack, you have said 
so, often." 

"I have said they must have stood 
up to^ow, and so " 

" You would have had awful con 1 - 
fusion, Jack. You must have order be- 
tween decks when you' re going into action. 
Besides, the rowers had cushions." 

" That old heresy of yours again." 

" Well, but Jack, they had cushions. 
Didn't the rowers who were marched 
across the Isthmus to man the ships 
which were to surprise the PiraBiis, 
carry their oars, thongs, and cushions ?" 

" If they did, your conclusion doesn't 
follow, father, that they sat on them to 

" You hear, Mr. Brown," said the 
Captain; "he admits my point about 
the cushions." 

" Oh father, I hope you used to fight 
the French more fairly," said Hardy. 

" But, didn't he ? Didn't Jack admit 
my point ? " 

" Implicitly, sir, I think," said Tom, 
catching Hardy's eye, which was danc- 
ing with fun. 

"Of course he did. You hear that, 
Jack. Now my notion about triremes " 

A knock at the door interrupted the 
captain again, and -Blake came in and 
was introduced. 

" Mr. Blake is almost our best scholar, 
father ; you should appeal to him about 
the cushions." 

" I am very proud to make your 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 

acquaintance, sir," said the captain; "I 
have, heard niy son speak of you often." 

" We were talking about triremes," 
said Tom ; " Captain Hardy thinks the 
oars must have been twenty feet long." 

" Not easy to come forward well with 
that sort of oar," said Blake ; " they 
must have pulled a slow stroke." 

" Our torpid would have bumped the 
best of them," said Hardy. 

" I don't think they could have made 
more than six knots," said the captain; 
" But yet they used to sink one another, 
and a light boat going only six knots 
couldn't break another in two amid- 
ships. It's a puzzling subject, Mr. 

" It is, sir," said Blake ; " if we only 
had some of their fo' castle songs we 
should know more about it. I'm afraid 
they had no Dibdin." 

" I wish you would turn one 'of my 
father's favourite songs into anapaests 
for him," said Hardy. 

" What are they 1 " said Blake. 

" ' Tom Bowling,' or ' The wind that 
blows, and the ship that goes, and the 
lass that loves a sailor.' " 

"By the way, why shouldn't we have 
a song 1 " said Torn. " What do you 
say, Captain Hardy 1 " 

The captain winced a little as he saw 
his chance of expounding his notion as 
to triremes slipping away, but answered, 

" By all means, sir ; Jack must sing 
for me, though. Did you ever hear him 
sing ' Tom Bowling ' ? " 

"No, never, sir. Why, Hardy, you 
never told me you could sing." 

" You never asked me," said Hardy, 
laughing ; " but, if I sing for my father, 
he must spin us a yarn." 

" Oh yes ; will you, sir 1 " 

" I'll do my best, Mr. Brown; but I 
don't know that you'll care to listen to 
my old yarns. Jack thinks everybody 
must like them as well as he, who used 
to hear them when he was a child." 

"Thank you, sir; that's famous now 
Hardy, strike up." 

"After you. You must set the ex- 
ample in your own rooms." 

So Tom sang his song. And the noise 
Drought Drysdale and another man up, 

who were loitering in quad on the look- 
out for something to do. Drysdale and 
the Captain recognised one another, and 
were friends at once. And then Hardy 
sang "Tom Bowling," in a style which 
astonished the rest not a little, and as 
usual nearly made his father cry ; and 
Blake sang, and Drysdale, and the other 
man. And then the captain was called 
on for his yarn ; and, the general voice 
being for " something that had happened 
to him," " the strangest thing that had 
ever happened to him at sea," the old 
gentleman laid down his pipe and sat 
up . in his chair with his hands on his 
stick and began. 


It will be forty years ago next month 
since the ship I was then in came home 
from the West Indies station, and was 
paid off. I had nowhere in particular 
to go just then, and so was very glad to 
get a letter, the morning after 1 went 
ashore at Portsmouth, asking me to go 
down to Plymouth for a week or so. 
It came from an old sailor, a friend of 
my family, who had been Commodqre of 
the fleet. He lived at Plymouth; he 
was a thorough old sailor what you 
young men would call 'an old salt' and 
couldn't live out of sight of the blue 
sea and the shipping. It is a disease 
that a good many of us take who have 
spent our best years on the sea. I have 
it myself a sort of feeling that we must 
be under another kind of Providence, 
when we look out and see a hill on this 
side and a hill on that. It's wonderful 
to see the trees come out and the corn 
grow, but then it doesn't come so home 
to an old sailor. I know that we're all 
just as much under the Lord's hand on 
shore as at sea ; but you can't read in a 
book you haven't been used to, and they 
that go down to the sea in ships, they 
see the works of the Lord and His 
wonders in 1 the deep. It isn't their 
fault if they don't see His wonders on 
the land so easily as other people. 

But, for all that, there's no man enjoys 
a cruize in the country more than a 
sailor. It's forty years ago since I started 
for Plymouth, but I haven't forgotten 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

the road a bit, or how beautiful it was ; 
all through the New Forest, and over 
Salisbury Plain, and then on by the 
mail to Exeter, and through Devonshire. 
It took me three days to get to Ply- 
mouth, for we didn't get about so quick 
in those days. 

The Commodore was very kind to me 
when I got there, and I went about with 
him to the ships in the bay, and through 
the dock-yard, and picked up a good 
deal that was of use to me afterwards. 
I was a lieutenant in those days, and 
had seen a good deal of service, and I 
found the old Commodore had a great 
nephew whom he had adopted, and had 
set his whole heart upon. He was an 
old bachelor himself, but the boy had 
come to live with him, and was to go to 
sea ; so he wanted to put him under 
some one who would give an eye to him 
for the first year or two. He was a 
light slip of a boy then, fourteen years 
old, with deep set blue eyes and long 
eyelashes, and cheeks like a girl's, but as 
brave as a lion and as merry as a lark. 
The old gentleman was very pleased to 
see that we took to one another. We 
used to bathe and boat together ; and 
he was never tired of hearing my stories 
about the great admirals, and the fleet, 
and the stations I had been on. 

Well, it was agreed that I should 
apply for a ship again directly, and go 
up to London with a letter to the Ad- 
miralty from the Commodore, to help 
things on. After a month or two I was 
appointed to a brig, lying at Spithead ; 
and so I wrote off to the Commodore, 
and he got his boy a midshipman's berth 
on board, and brought him to Ports- 
mouth himself, a day or two before we 
sailed for the Mediterranean. The old 
gentleman came on board to see his boy's 
hammock slung, and went below into 
the cockpit to make sure that all was right. 
He only left us by the pilot-boat, when 
we were well out in the Channel He 
was very low at parting from his boy, 
but bore up as well as he could ; and we 
promised to write to him from Gibraltar, 
and as often afterwards as we had a chance. 

I was soon as proud and fond of little 
Tom Holdsworth as if he had been my 

own younger brother; and, for that 
matter, so were all the crew, from our 
captain to the cook's boy. He was such 
a gallant youngster, and yet so gentle. 
In one cutting-out business we had, he 
climbed over the boatswain's shoulders, 
and was almost first on deck; how he 
came out of it without a scratch I can't 
think to this day. But he hadn't a bit 
of bluster in him, and was as kind as 
a woman to any one who was wounded 
or down with sickness. 

After we had been out about a year 
we were sent to cruise off Malta, on the 
look-out for the French fleet. It was a 
long business, and the post wasn't so 
good then as it is now. We were some- 
times for months without getting a letter, 
and knew nothing of what was happen- 
ing at home, or anywhere else. We had 
a sick tune too on board, and at last he 
got a fever. He bore up against it like 
a man, and wouldn't knock off duty for 
a long time. He was midshipman of my 
watch ; so I used to make him turn in 
early, and tried to ease things to him as 
much as I could ; but he didn't pick 
up, and I began to get very anxious 
about him. I talked to the doctor, and 
turned matters over in my own mind, 
and at last I came to think he wouldn't 
get any better unless he could sleep out 
of the cockpit. So, one night, the 20th 
of October it was I remember it well 
enough, better than I remember any 
day since ; it was a dirty night, blowing 
half a gale of wind from the southward, 
and we were under close-reefed topsails 
I had the first watch, and at nine o'clock 
I sent him down to my cabin to sleep 
there, where he would be fresher and 
quieter, and I was to turn into his ham- 
mock when my watch was over. 

I was on deck three hours or so after 
he went down, and the weather got 
dirtier and dirtier, and the scud drove 
by, and the wind sang and hummed 
through the rigging it made me melan- 
choly to listen to it. I could think of 
, nothing but the youngster down below, 
and what I should say to his poor old 
uncle if anything happened. Well, soon 
after midnight I went down and turned 
into his hammock. I didn't go to sleep 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


at once, for I remember very well listen- 
ing to the creaking of the ship's timbers 
as she rose to the swell, and watching 
the lamp, which was slung from the 
ceiling, and gave light enough to make 
out the other hammocks swinging slowly 
all together. At last, however, I dropped 
off, and I reckon I must have been 
asleep about an hour, when I woke 
with a start. For the first moment I 
didn't see anything but the swinging 
hammocks and the lamp ; but then sud- 
denly I -became aware that some one 
was standing by my hammock, and I saw 
the figure as plainly as I see any one of 
you now, for the foot of the hammock 
was close to the lamp, and the light 
struck full across on the head and shoul- 
ders, which was all that I could see of 
him. There he was, the old Commodore ; 
his grizzled hair coming out from under a 
red woollen night-cap, and his shoulders 
wrapped in an old threadbare blue dress- 
ing-gown which I had often seen him in. 
His face looked pale and drawn, and there 
was a wistful disappointed look about the 
eyes. I was so taken aback I couldn't 
speak, but lay watching bim. He looked 
full at my face once or twice, but didn't 
seem to recognise me ; and, just as I was 
getting back my tongue and going to 
speak, he said slowly : 'Where's Tom 1 
this is his hammock. I can't see Tom;' 
and then he looked vaguely about and 
passed away somehow, but how I 
couldn't see. In a moment or two I 
jumped out and hurried to my cabin, 
but young Holdsworth was fast asleep. 
I sat down, and wrote down just what I 
had seen, making a note of the exact 
time, twenty minutes to two. I didn't 
turn in again, but sat watching the 
youngster. When he woke I asked him 
if he had heard anything of his great 
uncle by the last mail. Yes, he had 
heard; the old gentleman was rather 
feeble, but nothing particular the matter. 
I kept my own counsel and never told a 
soul in the ship ; and, when the mail came 
to hand a few days afterwards with a letter 
from the Commodore to his nephew, dated 
late in September, saying that he was 
well, I thought the figure by my ham- 
mock must have been all my own fancy. 
No. 8. VOL. n. 

However, by the next mail came the 
news of the old Commodore's death. 
It had been a very sudden break-up, 
his executor said. He had left all 
his property, which was not much, to 
his great-nephew, who was to get leave 
to come home as soon as he could. 

The first time we touched at Malta 
Tom Holdsworth left us, and went 
home. We followed about two years 
afterwards, and the first thing I did 
after landing was to find out the Com- 
modore's executor. - He was a quiet, 
dry little Plymouth lawyer, and very 
civilly answered all my questions about 
the last days of my old friend. At last 
I asked him to tell me as near as he 
could the time of his death ; and he 
put on his spectacles, and got his diary, 
and turned over the leaves. I was quite 
nervous till he looked up and said, 
" Twenty-five minutes to two, sir, A. M., 
on the morning of October 21st; or it 
might be a few minutes later." 

" How do you mean, sir ] " I asked. 

" Well," he said, "it is an odd story. 
The doctor was sitting with me, watch- 
ing the old man, and, as I tell you, at 
twenty-five minutes to two, he got up 
and said it was all over. We stood 
together, talking in whispers for, it 
might be, four or five minutes, when the 
body seemed to move. He was an odd 
old man, you know, the Commodore, 
and we never could get him properly to 
bed, but he lay in his red nightcap and 
old dressing-gown, with a blanket over 
him. It was not a pleasant sight, I can 
tell you, sir. I don't think one of you 
gentlemen, who are bred to face all 
manner of dangers, -would have liked it. 
As I was saying, the body first moved, 
and then sat up, propping itself behind 
with its hands. The eyes were wide 
open, and he looked at us for a moment, 
and said slowly, ' I've been to the 
Mediterranean, but I didn't see Tom.' 
Then the body sank back again, and 
this time the old Commodore was really 
dead. But it was not a pleasant thing 
to happen to one, sir. I do not remem- 
ber anything like it in my forty years' 

To be continued. 



CAST her forth in her shame ; 

She is no daughter of mine ; 
We had an honest name, 

All of our house and line ; 
And she has brought us to shame. 

What are you whispering there, 
Parleying with sin at the door ? 

I have no blessing for her ; 

She is dead to me evermore ; 

Dead ! would to God that she were ! 

Dead ! and the grass o'er her head ! 

There is no shame in dying : 
They were wholesome tears we shed 

Where all her little sisters are lying ; 
And the love of them is not dead. 

I did not curse her, did 1 1 

I meant not that, Lord : 
We are cursed enough already ; 

Let her go with never a word : 
I have blessed her often already. 

You are the mother that bore her, 
I do not blame you for weeping ; 

They had all gone before her, 

And she had our hearts a-keeping ; 

And the love that we bore her ! 

I thought that she was like you ; 

I thought that the light in her face 
Was the youth and the morning dew, 

And the winsome look of grace : 
But she was never like you. 

Is the night dark and wild 1 

Dark is the way of sin 
The way of an erring child, 

Dark without and within. 
And tell me not she was beguiled. 

What should beguile her, truly ? 

Did we not bless them both ? 
There was gold between them duly, 

And we blessed their plighted troth ; 
Though I never liked him truly. 

Let XTS read a word from the Book ; 

I think that my eyes grow dim; 
She used to sit in the nook 

There by the side of him, 
And hand me the holy Book. 

I wot not what ails me to-night, 
I cannot lay hold on a text. 

Jesus ! guide me aright, 
Eor my soul is sore perplexed, 

And the. book seems dark as the night. 

And the night is stormy and dark ; 

And dark is the way of sin ; 
And the stream will be swollen too ; 
and hark 

How the water roars in the Lynn ! 
It's an ugly ford in the dark. 

What did you say 1 To-night 

Might she sleep in her little bed 1 

Her bed so pure and white ! 

How often I've thought and said 

They were both so pure and white. 

But that was a lie for she 

Was a whited sepulchre ; 
Yet she was white to me, 

And I've buried my heart in her ; 
And it's dead wherever she be. 

Nay, she never could lay her head 
Again in the little white room 

Where all her little sisters were laid ; 
She would see them still in the gloom, 

All chaste and pure but dead. 

We will go all together, 

She, and you, and I ; 
There's the black peat-hag 'mong the 

Where we could all of us lie, 
And bury our shame together. 

Any foul place will do 

For a grave to us now in our shame : 
She may lie with me and you, 

But she shall not sleep with them, 
And the dust of my fathers too. 

The Royal Academy. 

Is it sin, you say, I have spoken ? 

I know not ; my head feels strange ; 
And something in me is broken ; 

Lord, is it the coming change ? 
Forgive the word I have spoken. 

I scarce know what I have said ; 

Was I hard on her for her fall ? 
That was wrong; but the rest were dead, 

And I loved her more than them all 
For she heired all the love of the dead. 

One by one as they died, 

The love, that was owing to them, 
Centred on her at my side; 

And then she brought us to shame, 
And broke the crown of my pride. 

Lord, pardon mine erring child : 

Do we not all of us err ? 
Dark was my heart and wild ; 

might I but look on her, 
Once more, my lost loved child. 

For I thought, not long ago, 

That I was in Abraham's bosom, 

And she lifted a face of woe, 

Like s*orne pale, withered blossom, 

Out of the depths below. 

Do not say, when I am gone, 

That she brought my grey hairs to 

the grave ; 
Women do that ; but let her alone ; 

She'll have sorrow enough to brave ; 
That would turn her heart into stone. 

Is that her hand in mine ? 

Now, give me thine, sweet wife : 
I thank thee, Lord, for this grace of 

And light, and peace, and life ; 
And she is thine and mine.' 



A GOOD ruler but a bad general was 
Ferdinand, Duke of Brunswick. The 
French defeated him at Auerstadt and 
Jena ; mortally wounded, he retired to 
his . own territories ^to die, but, being 
hunted out, took refuge within those of 
the Danish king. His enemies over- 
ran Brunswick and committed such 
dreadful excesses that the huzzars of 
Brunswick Oels, assuming a black 
uniform of perpetual mourning for their 
loss, signified a determination neither 
to give nor receive quarter by wearing 
on their shakoes a silver skull and cross- 
bones. They fulfilled the vow, and their 
hatred of the French was deepened by 
the death of the young Duke William 
Frederick, at Ligny, on the day before 
Waterloo. Mr. Millais has chosen for 
his contribution the parting of an officer 
of this famous corps of the Black- 
Brunswiekers from his mistress. He 
insinuates a French leaning to her 
judgment by giving a French character 
to her face, and showing hung upon 
the wall of the room a print after 

David's picture of " Napoleon crossing 
the Alps." She would have him stay, 
not only as her lover, but as the 
opponent of her own party. For this 
she has interposed herself between him 
and the door, standing up against his 
breast, she holds it back with one hand 
upon the lock, although he firmly strives 
to open it and leave her. For this the 
tears are ready to start under her 
broad eyelids, and for this she lays her 
head against his bosom ; her eyes are 
downcast, and her lips tremble with 
emotion suppressed though evident. 
He looks at her depressed face, in 
pique averted from, him, himself hurt 
that she owns not the call of duty ha 
must obey. 

" I could not love thee, deare, so much, 
Loved I not honour more" 

is the motto he might take from Love- 
lace's song. His will is stern and 
heart strong, and she does but make 
the duty painful by resisting. Maybe 
he feels that a political bias in- 


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fluences her conduct. Does this seem 
melodramatic, good reader this story of 
vengeance, skulls, and cross-bones, and 
lovers' parting ? Possibly it may to 
some who believe in no more earnest 
expression of passion than an operatic 
duet siing before the footlights. But 
let such sceptics see Millais' picture, 
and they will recognise more than the 
raptures of the kid-glove school. He 
has dealt with great wisdom upon the 
broad, bold, and blunt features of the 
German officer ; the square forehead and 
knitted brow, the clear firm-set lips; 
the hair cut short giving a precision and 
rigidity to his face, which, brown but 
pale, typifies a resolute grief admirably. 
She too, with her French face, is half 
unworthy of such a lover, piqued and 
nigh fretful as she is. Passionate as a 
child, and unstable as water, she would 
stay his will with her prejudices. All 
this must strike the most unobservant 
as the converse of the motive of the 
" Huguenot" to which this picture is 
a pendant. Let us think how the 
artist displays his knowledge of the 
heart in thus treating two allied 
subjects so diversely. In both the 
woman would save her lover, one by 
keeping him away from danger; the 
other, humbler and more devoted, bow- 
ing to the will of the strong-hearted 
man, strives only to gain him a little 
safety only a little with the badge of 
Guise ! We are to suppose too that 
she is not aware of the Protestantism of 
her lover, at any rate that it is not 
publicly known ; so she is tempting 
him to no overt dishonour as she of 
the Black-Brunswicker does ; therefore 
the entreaty of that sweet face, whose 
beauty men have not yet done justice 
to, because forsooth it is not tamely 
vacant of expression. The depth of 
her tenderness is very different from 
that passionate caprice of the lady of 
Brussels, who would not guard her lover, 
but rather lock him up out of the way 
of hurting or being hurt. 

For technical merit this work is a 
triumph throughout. Getting over the 
difficulty of the mass of black in the 
soldier's uniform by any means would be 

honourable to the painter, but every artist 
will appreciate the skill with which Millais 
has opposed this by a sudden contrast 
of the intense white of the lady's dress, 
so that they negative one another ; then r 
to overcome the chill effect of both 
having grouped round them warm greens 
of the wall-paper, mauve of the lady's 
shawl, and hot transparent brown of the 
polished mahogany door, white and 
black repeated in the print on the 
wall, he adds the warm-tinted floor, the 
variety in unity of broken tints of warm 
or cold counterchanged upon the black 
and the white dress ; lastly, the focali- 
zation of hot tint with crimson-scarlet 
of the broad arm-ribbon of the lady, and 
the subtle employment of downright 
cold blue in the braid running athwart 
the soldier's figure. We shall be told 
that these are technical subtleties people 
don't understand, but reply that they 
are not subtleties, but patent to the 
least taught eye. Colour is as much 
an art as music, being in fact to the eye 
what music is to the ear, the expres- 
sion of beauty 

" That may overtake far thought, 
With music that it makes." 

The time is rapidly coming when this 
will be understood, and critics no more 
omit to describe the .colour of a picture 
heart of art as it is than they would 
the melody of a piece of music. 

Mr. Frith's "Claude Duval" displays 
no such knowledge as Mr. MUlais' 
work. Comparatively it is deficient 
in artistic power and feeling for the 
subject, relatively coarse as that is. 
Claude Duval, the highwayman, took a 
lady out of her coach and made her 
dance a corranto with him in the road 
while his companions rifled the equipage. 
His figure is stiff and angular, needs grace 
and spirit of action ; that of the lady is 
much better; she looks pallid with fear, 
and trembling with suppressed anger. 
The group inside the coach is the best 
part of the picture ; a masked ruffian 
enters it with a grin, demanding the 
occupiers' valuables. An old lady clasps 
her hands entreatingly, a younger one 
faults at the spectacle. An old man 

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sits bound by the roadside, after having 
struggled against the thieves. 

Sir E. Landseer has outdone himself 
with his great picture, " A Flood in the 
Highlands." A torrent rushes through 
the village street, bearing large pine- 
trees torn up by the roots, and carried 
down from the bank above; these have 
fallen across a waggon, the horse of which 
struggles in the flood; some men on 
the roof of a cottage endeavour to save 
him by means of a rope, that stretched 
to the utmost does but check the speed. 
Immersed, and nigh spent, an ox has 
come driving full upon a cottage in the 
foreground, and with bloody nostrils and 
distended eyes, strives vainly to get 
footing for its hoofs. A goat whose 
eyes are glazing in death is swept 
down beside the larger beast, and 
will soon sink in the waves. Upon 
the roof of this last cottage, up to the 
very threshold of which the water flows, 
are gathered its inhabitants, a woman 
with her child, whom she has just 
taken from the cradle; and now, so 
ghastly is the spectacle of death pre-, 
sented by the drowning beasts before 
her that she lets even the infant lie 
scarce noticed on her lap. Glaring with 
rounded eyes of horror, and parted jaw, 
fixed wide in terror, with outthrust 
head, and body bowed, she stares, her 
forehead in deep lines, and her cheek 
hollowed out fearfully. The cradle is 
empty, the clothes tossed over; before 
it a sheep-dog, with pricked ears and 
quivering flanks, whimpers with fright. 
Behind her sits an old man, blind, 
scarce conscious, but mutely praying; 
by his side, a boy, dripping wet, clasps 
a, puppy he has saved close to his chest ; 
the boy is pallid-cheeked, andhis eyes red. 
On a ladder, by which they have reached 
the roof, is a group of poultry, fussily 
troubled, and stupidly selfish. The 
cock roosts lazily ; one of the hens in her 
nervous alarm true bit of nature this 
has laid an egg, which, falling on a lower 
step before a cat, astonishes her greatly, 
as, with curved tail, she rises to in- 
spect it. Above the poultry, a mouse 
creeps upon the step, having judi- 
ciously put them, between himself and 

the cat. The trophies of the household, 
that have been saved as its palladium, 
lie heaped in front, a brass-studded 
target, wherewith the old grandsire 
might have gone to battle in the '45 ; a 
heap of plaids, and triple case of High- 
land knives. Overhead the great pines 
roar in the wind's strife, bending their 
red branches like canes ; black game, 
driven from the moors, cling there ; and 
the wild grey clouds of storm hurry 
heavily over the scene of ruin. Close 
undor the eaves of the cottage in front, a 
hare, borne down from the open, and 
. sheltered from the force of the deluge by 
the slack- water, burrows fearfully in haste 
a way into the thatch of the habitation of 
its enemies ; its ears are laid back, and the 
eyes, that Nature has made ever expres- 
sive of alarm, have now no meaning in 
them but the wild instinct of self-pre- 
servation. "We have said the water has 
reached the cottage threshold, and it 
has flooded the interior. A flock of 
ducks swim before it. Over it is placed 
a board, with the inscription denoting 
the occupation of the inmates ; thus : * 


Stance mile East. 

For the benefit of Southron readers, 
let us say that "upputting" genuine 
old Saxon the Celtic proprietor has 
adopted is equivalent to the offer of 
"beds." Does not promise good ones 
even ; you may stop, and that is all ; 
still less does it hold out hopes of " good 
entertainment for man and beast," so rife, 
but so seldom fulfilled, in the English 
villages. "Stance mile East," signifies 
that there is a mile-stone so placed. 
In the Highlands the primitive direction 
to travellers is by the points of the com- 
pass, and not " first turning to the right 
and third to the left," of the less intel- 
ligible English custom. 

Mr. Elmore's picture, " The Tuileries, 
20th June, 1792," has for subject 
Marie Antoinette before the mob. The 
lowest of the people have flooded the 
Palace; and, the Queen's attendants 
having brought her children, in order 
that their presence might protect their 


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mother, she, "standing behind a large 
table, faces her enemies with the here- 
ditary resolution of the Austrian race. 
This keeps down the manifestation of 
terror ; and she is haughtily self-pos- 
sessed enough, the inward dread show- 
ing itself alone in her sunk features, and 
eyelids that droop quiveringly. "She has 
assumed the Republican cockade. The 
Dauphin sits upon the table's edge, 
clinging to his mother, wearing the 
red cap of liberty. Leaning by the 
side is her daughter, whom she clasps 
against her breast. Madame is nearer 
the window, far more terrified than she 
who is more in danger. Beyond the 
table is a hot crowd of urgent and 
shrieking women, and a few men, armed 
and unarmed. A withered hag vocife- 
rates loudly, snapping her lean talons at 
the Queen. The last has been im- 
pressed with the appearance of a younger 
woman Avho had been loudest of all. Re- 
monstrating, she demanded what harm 
she had done the people, that they should 
hate her : "I was happy when you 
loved me." The woman addressed, who 
has a coarse beauty, moved by this, 
desisted, and now looks half regret- 
fully upon the' Queen. A more brutal 
girl rebukes such tenderness of heart, 
and urges further violence. The crowd 
.sways, to and fro, jostling about, and, 
screaming oaths of vengeance, seems 
bent on destruction. In front of the table 
lies a gilded chair of state, broken to 
pieces ; the gilded crown shattered upon 
its back. The whole picture is full of 
action and commotion, displays great 
variety of character and expression, 
and for execution is much superior to 
anything the artist has yet produced. 
Contrasted to this in all respects is 
Mr. Dyce's "St. John leading Home his 
Adopted Mother." After the entomb- 
ment, it is related that the " beloved " 
" took her to his own home." They 
move across the front of the picture, 
St. John leading the Virgin, no lacry- 
mose beauty, but a worn woman, past 
the prime of life, by the hand. His 
face, notwithstanding a certain asceti- 
cism of execution that makes it look 
peevish, is as beautiful as it should 

be, his divided hair falling in equal 
masses on his shoulders, the features 
calm, pale, and regular ; he moves 
erect and elastically, with a graceful 
mien, the loose robes flowing about 
him as he goes, his head bare. The 
Virgin's" head is covered with a 
wimple ; her sorrow-stricken face de- 
pressed, and head held sideways ; her 
dress massed about her. Behind is 
seen the new tomb, two sitting at its 
entrance: from the gate of the inclo- 
sure two more depart ; upon the horizon 
the sun of "a summer dawn arises 
through a mass of purple cloud, throw- 
ing golden light upon the sepulchre ; 
while Christ's mother and the "most 
loved " pace away from its radiance into 
the chilly shadow of the foreground. This 
foreground is elaborately and delicately 
wrought with weeds, grass, and herbage. 
The adoption of a system of execution 
like that of the early Italian school is 
not inapt to the subject. 

"The Man of Sorrows," by this 
painter, shows Christ seated in the wil- 
derness. This is an elaborately exe- 
cuted work, displaying far more power 
of colour than that above described. 
The landscape portion is delightfully 
faithful, and most tenderly treated ; 
but the artist has, probably from a desire 
to show the universality of the motive 
he illustrates, chosen an English in- 
stead of an Eastern view, for his back- 
ground. All the herbage is English ; 
the sky, soft grey -blue, like an English 
sky. It may be that the face of the 
Redeemer lacks the dignity of resigna- 
tion ; but his action, seated upon a bank, 
with head downcast and hands strongly 
clasped upon his lap, is expressive, and 
admirably apt. Mr. Dyce's " View of 
Pegwell Bay," notwithstanding its ex- 
treme delicacy and careful treatment, 
from the want of due gradations of 
tone and breadth of effect, pleases us 
less than either of the before-named. 
Bits of nature, seen especially in the 
foreground rocks, glittering pools of 
water, and shining, saturated sand, are 
really delicious. 

The scene from "The Taming of 
the Shrew/ 7 Petruchio overthrowing the 

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table, by Mr. Egg, is admirably full of 
auction and character. The tamer has 
sprung from his seat, plunged the carv- 
ing-fork into the joint of meat before 
him, holds it up so, brandishes the 
carving-knife, and looks melo-dramatic 
thunders at the waiting-men. Poor 
Katherine, bursting with wrath, and yet 
dismayed at the outrageous conduct of 
her master, knits her brows vainly, and 
would gladly escape. Her face is an 
admirable study of expression, not at- 
all in the conventional style of character 
in which she is often represented, but 
showing a fresh conception of the cha- 
racter altogether. The execution is a 
little thin in some parts, as in the heads 
of two servants that are opposed to the 
light of an open window. This picture 
exhibits extremely fine qualities of 
colour, of a deep and vigorous kind ; it 
is rich, without being hot or tawdry. 

Mr. John Phillip's " Marriage of the 
Princess Eoyal '"' is a very fine work 
of its class. More has been made out of 
the subject than was to be expected 
from the constraints and inconveniences 
under which it must have been exe- 
cuted. The portraits are excellently 
done, and the row of rosy bridesmaids 
gives a peculiar charm to the work. - A 
flood of rosy soft light seems to come 
out of them, doubtless indicative of the 
artist's intense satisfaction in dealing 
with anything so charming and so 

A long warm tract of moonlight in the 
sea, that goes rippling and gently heav- 
ing to afar off, where it is lost in the 
vapours of the mysterious horizon, over 
which the soft luminary's light casts .a 
radiant veil, the sky calm and still, and 
slow clouds travelling athwart it ! A 
mild gentle wind like a sleeping pulse 
lifts the sail of an open boat, filling it 
in irregular puffs, but to collapse again, 
letting the cordage rattle softly. Three are 
seated in the boat. A young man, with 
large gaunt eyes fixed in thought, leans 
forward in his place, the long robes of 
a Greek of the later time folded about 
him, and his whole attitude bespeaking 
the feelings of one who had just seen a 
great horror, so great that he contem- 

plates the impression on his brain 
again and yet again, as that of a spec- 
tacle that should never leave his sight. 
Beside him, aad all at length upon the 
vessel's thwart, a woman leans back, 
her face upturned, regarding the sky 
vaguely and dreamily as that of one 
whose great dread was over, and now, 
exhausted with the suffering, yet feels 
a great happiness nigh within her grasp. 
Nearer to us, and facing them, so that her 
back is towards ourselves, sits a second 
woman, also young, holding a Greek lyre 
upon her knee^ over whose strings from 
time to time her fingers go, bringing 
out a melancholy wail, like that of one 
who, saved in person, had yet lost that 
which was more than all. The lighted 
gloom of night above and around, still- 
ness, the lisping of the sea chattering 
by the keel ! A few low notes of music, 
and the night- wind rustling in the sail ! 
This is Mr. Poole's picture of " Glaucus, 
Nydia, and lone escaping from Pompeii." 
It is like a vision or a dream, the ecstatic 
fancy of an opium-eater in his narcotic 
sleep, just when the fervour of the drug 
is slaked and the procession of imagery 
takes pathetic and mournful phases. The 
wide and moonlit sea, and three escaping 
from, a lava-burnt city; the darkness 
of preternatural night that had been 
instead of day. Thus they had left 
crowds, earthquake, fire, and falling 
rocks, the ashes that made night, the 
crashing palaces, and the roaring, shriek- 
ing people, to find themselves upon the 
open, secret sea, alorie and silent under 
the weight of awe. Such is the impres- 
sion excited by this singularly poetical 
work. Its sole intention has been to 
create an impression of something 
vaguely beautiful, undefined, vast, and 
dreamy. The figures are almost form- 
less; the heads, technically speaking, 
are ill- drawn ; the hands dispropor- 
tionate ; the very colour itself, upon 
which the whole impression is founded, 
will not bear examination or comparison 
with the simple prosaic truths of nature. 
Despite all this, the intense feeling of 
the artist has not failed to arouse a re- 
ciprocating sympathy in our own minds, 
and there is no painter, not even Land- 


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seer himself, whom we should miss more 
from his place on the wall than Paul 
Falconer Poole. 

There is a great contrast to be found 
in the manner of treating a poetic sub- 
ject, on comparison of this picture of 
the flight from Pompeii, by Poole, with 
that by the painter of the " Evening 
Sun," Mr. F. G. Danby. "Phoebus rising 
from the Sea," by the lustre of his first 
vivifying rays, through the drifting forms 
of a rolling wave, calls into worldly 
existence "The Queen of Beauty," which 
wordy title is in itself against the picture. 
The work is an attempt to express the 
antique classic feeling upon a represen- 
tation of nature poetically conceived. 
It is dawn over the Greek sea, a 
mass of golden clouds on the horizon 
are modelled into the shape of Phcebus 
and his car, and those attendants of 
the morning that ever dance before it. 
Farther off, and just lighted by the 
warm ray, is a cloudy Olympus, the 
gods sitting in council or banquet, for 
their whole forms are so vague and un- 
determined that it is difficult to deter- 
mine which. It is a mere cloud-phan- 
tasm, such as the fancy feigns Avhen idly 
gazing at the summer sky. The calm 
sea of the morning flows softly to the 
shore, and breaks in the gentlest waves 
upon a shell-strewn beach. Overhead is 
the argentine azure of day's new birth. 
Venus seated in a shell and a group of 
nymphs are on the shallows of the 
shore. But Mr. Danby has ruined the 
motive of his subject by treating it 
prosaically. The cloudy Olympus looks 
a sham beside the solid sand and multi- 
tude of sea-shells. Apollo and his horses 
affect us not, because they come in con- 
tact with the truthful and natural paint- 
ing of the sea. The contrast jars between 
the realm of fact and that of imagina- 
tion. The artist must convey the in- 
tended impression by means of one or 
the other alone ; they are not to be 
mixed with impunity hence the total 
failure of all pictures of dreams, except 
when ideally treated, as Rembrandt did 
that of Jacob. "We cannot tolerate the 
figure of a sleeping man and a picture 
of his dream stuck in the sky : either 

we are with the dreamer and uncon- 
scious of ourselves and the dream ; or we 
see the dream alone, and our imagination 
must be content with the dream : no 
presentiment of both can exist together, 
but is repulsive to the feelings and the 
taste. Thus Mr. Danby has failed. His 
poetic Venus and cloud-realms above 
go down before the hard sand of the 
shore and dash of the sea- waves, and we 
are brought to see the bad drawing of 
the goddess herself, and distortions of 
the nymphs. We actually rejoice, so 
prosaic is the impression, that these 
queer females are near the shore, and 
not like to be drowned. Mr. Poole 
gives us nothing whatever of nature, 
but the brain-impression of a poetic 
instinct : we do not come in contact 
with substantial angles of fact, but drift 
with him into the region of fancy. 

Placed upon the line, in a conspicuous 
position, is a picture by Mr. Solomon 
Hart, E.A., entitled "Sacred Music," 
No. 176, showing three vulgar women, 
all of whose faces are out of drawing ; 
one singing, and two playing on man- 
dolins. If such a picture as this is hung, 
what must have been those thousands 
that are annually rejected. Or, turn 
to another of Mr. Hart's pictures. It 
is considered imperative - upon an ar- 
tist, before he commences a picture, 
if it contains architecture, to acquaint 
himself with at least the leading prin- 
ciples of the construction and ornamen- 
tation of any style to be employed. If 
he paints from a particular locality, he 
must present us with something like a 
portrait of that place if existing ; if not 
so, he must reconstruct it from autho- 
rities as well as he can. There is hardly 
any building of the middle ages that 
could be more easily reconstructed than 
old St. Paul's Cathedral ; there are oceans 
of prints of it ; descriptions and plans 
abound. Its history could be traced 
from decade to decade, from comple- 
tion to ruin in the Great Fire of London. 
Mr. Hart chooses a subject showing 
the interior of this building, "Arch- 
bishop Langton, after a Mass in old St. 
Paul's, conjuring the Earl of Pembroke 
and the Barons to extort from John 

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the Ratification of the Charter of Henry 
the First." Here is the primate and the 
barons, here the most beautiful of Eng- 
lish cathedrals. Alas, Mr. Hart ! is that 
the glorious rose-window men raved 
about ; are these the piers of old St. 
Paul's 1 Indeed there is hardly one of 
them upright. Has the artist no more 
eye for beauty than to " do " them thus, 
devoid of carving, or of ornament, of 
proportion even ? Are those the arches 
and that the groined roof above 1 The 
figures may be better, let us hope ; so, 
look. Indeed, they are not quite so bad, 
and might stand, which the columns 
will hardly do ; we see what the dresses 
are meant for in every quality but tex- 
ture ; and, although there is bad drawing 
in every one of them, yet nothing like 
so palpable an offence to the observer's 
taste as showing a cathedral without 
carvings and without colours, and in the 
state to which the iconoclasts, and the 
white-wash brushes of centuries of Deans 
and Chapters, have reduced the other 
glories of English architecture. Not less 
extraordinary and not less false is the 
flesh painting, or the surface of tinted 
chalk, for it is as dry as that, and as 
crude as a coarse system of handling can 
make it. Few of the faces are in better 
drawing in this picture than in the last. 
Mr. Hart is Professor of Painting to the 
Royal Academy, a post at one time held, 
or rather we should say filled, by Sir 
Joshua Reynolds, whose mantle must be 
too small for his successor. If this 
gentleman had never painted better pic- 
tures than these pretentiously placed 
works, we should, notwithstanding his 
eminent position, have passed him over 
in silence. But Mr. Hart has done 
much better things than those he has 
exhibited of late years. A tune was 
when he did not offend the public with 
ill-drawn and vulgar faces, and when at 
least he aimed at colour. 

In the picture to which we have 
referred, the archbishop points eagerly 
to the roll of the Charter held by an 
attendant. Some of the barons attest 
their devotion to the cause by pledging 
themselves to Heaven; one kneels kiss- 
ing his naked sword. Behind the arch- 

bishop is a group of acolytes and several 
military vassals of the Church ; one of 
the last is upon his knees, ardently 
kissing a reliquary containing bones. 
If the neglect of the most ordinary rules 
of art shown in the treatment of the 
architecture be not sufficient to convict 
this painter of the utmost indifference 
to public opinion, let the spectators 
examine the mail worn by the knights 
and barons. Any one who knows the 
peculiarly beautiful and delicate con- 
struction of this fabric will see at a 
glance that it is not the genuine mail, 
but rather a coarse imitation of it, pro- 
bably obtained at a costumier's, and ren- 
dered with a careless hand in the 
picture. This is but a type of the treat- 
ment throughout. 

Let us turn from these to the 
works of an artist who loves and 
understands nature, and renders for us 
all her beauties that the brush can 
render. We refer to those of Mr. Hook, 
four in number. Take, first, " Stand 
clear !" a fisherman's boat coming 
ashore, leaping to the beach, as it 
were, the clear green sea's last wave 
curving out under her stem in a long 
bright arch that comes gently hissing 
from the shingle to fling itself impa- 
tiently forward. " Stand clear ! " is the 
order to us on shore to avoid the rope 
that one of her crew casts to his mates 
that they may make her fast by it. It 
springs out of his hands in bold curves, 
and leaps before the boat. The fisher- 
man himself, an old salt, stands up 
furling the sail ; a boy sits upon the 
gunwale, just ready to drop into the 
water the instant she touches ; another 
sits within, looking out for some one 
amongst the bystanders. There is a 
perfectly delightful expression on this 
lad's face. No painter understands more 
entirely the colour of a sea-bronzed face 
than Mr. Hook, or can give so well the 
salted briny look of an old sailor's skin, 
or the tawny gold seen in that of a 
smooth-faced lad which has been sub- 
jected to the same influences. " Whose 
Bread is on the Waters " is the title of 
another picture by \this artist. A fisher- 
man and a boy are in an open boat, 


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sturdily hauling in a net that conies up 
loaded with fish, whose glittering silver 
scales, fresh from the sea, sparkle on the 
brown cordage of the net like lustrous 
jewels. The boy pulls with a will, 
setting his foot against the boat's 
thwart; the man, stronger and more 
deliberate, . gives a "dead haul." .The 
sea is of deep fresh green, very different 
from the sea of painters generally, but 
sparkling and full of motion, intensely 
varied in colour, and displaying an 
amount of knowledge of nature that is 
delightful to contemplate, and one that 
all who love her will recognize with 
ever-increasing satisfaction. The way 
the waves rise and dash over, shows it is 
wind against tide, for their foamy little 
crests fall back into their own hollows ; 
the turbulent tops-of these waves, pettish 
as they seem to be, and hasty without 
force, and too small to be the cause of 
awe to us, shows' a fine reticence of the 
artist's power. He does not care to 
bully our admiration out of us, but takes 
it captive with fidelity to nature. The 
sea, not angry now, is yet working up, 
and the sky above shows signs of a gale 
in its long-drawn clouds, purplish and 
deep grey. The brassy colour of the 
firmament, where the sun has just gone 
down, and a veil of shifting vapour 
above that melts the edges of the clouds 
into the luminous ether these last, 
drawn to streaks are signs of wind to 
come. . 

The waters dash crisply and freshly 
in the last-named pictures, but the 
artist's illustration to Tennyson's 
"Break, Break, Break," 

" O, well for the sailor lad 

That he sings in his boat on the bay!" 

shows the calmest of calm seas, a silver 
sea, filled with subdued light, and seem- 
ing asleep in light, the long low billows 
that roll, not like waves that break and 
dash, but the heaving of a vast sheet of 
glittering waters, in shallow trenches, flat 
for miles, yet creeping and sweeping 
along in a restless heave, as the chest of 
one deep asleep moves gently to his 
breathing. Such the sea that is over- 
hung with a misty veil ; not lifting, be- 

cause universal, and still, because there 
is not a breath of wind to find itself in 
this deep bay, whose air itself dozes over 
the waters at rest. The silent sleepy 
heat that holds the whole scene to this 
quiet, has drawn that dreaming misty 
veil from the sea, to overhang a hill ; it 
wraps also the high, deep-verdured cliffs 
in the same delicate shade. All is 
asleep, and a silvery silence reigns. By 
some piles in the front floats a boat and 
a boy in it singing, his sister leaning 
backwards upon the gunwale, paddling 
her arm over the side in the water, that 
burns beneath the little craft with a 
deep vivid green, of the sunlight con- 
trasted and concentrated through the 
translucent waters. The reflections of the 
piles tremble upon the water that steal- 
thily creeps about them, making ring 
within ring at every slow heave, as it 
ascends the solid timber. So silent seems 
it all, that one might hear the boy's 
voice (he pours it out in a low monoto- 
nous sea song) even far off on the mist- 
veiled cliff. The bay is broken in two 
by a jutting point, telling of an estuary 
beyond, round which go the white 
glimmering sails of a barque, as she is 
borne in, not by the wind, for the canvas 
hangs useless from the yards, but by the 
tide alone that is setting inwards. The 
reader will see that our admiration for 
this picture is unbounded ; indeed the 
poetic feeling needed to express the 
theme supplied by the Laureate's verses, 
is exquisitely rendered, and that more- 
over in the most loyal way the task could 
be executed which is, representing 
natural thoughts, however refined, 
pathetic, and subtle they may be, by 
the aid of most refined, pathetic, and 
subtle-meaning nature herself alone. A 
delightful pastoral, "The Valley in the 
Moor," is the remaining picture by this 
artist. It seems to us a little crude in 
green colour ; but, notwithstanding, is 
very faithful as a portrait of nature. 

Excepting these, which from their 
class we may rank with the landscapes, 
the best representation of nature is 
Mr. Anthony's " Hesperus," a large pic- 
ture, showing a piece of open land under 
an evening sky, when the star named 

The Royal Academy. 


reigns brightly, even in the lustre of a 
sunset. The sun has gone down behind 
the trees on the margin of the open 
country, and casts a soft crimson radi- 
ance upon the fleecy clouds that swim 
above ; the air cool and bright and clear; 
the vegetation dark red with autumn 
tints, harmonising with the tawny brown 
of the stiff clay land, and orange of a 
gravel road over which passes a team, 
and waggon. We commend to the ob- 
server's study the sky in all its delicate 
and beautiful colouring. 

Mr. Dobson's picture of the Nativity, 
styled "Bethlehem," needs our atten- 
tion. It shows some fine points of 
design, especially that of a kneeling 
shepherd ; the infant Christ himself 
is charmingly treated, lying back 
playing Avith his fingers as infants 
will. In Mr. Simeon Solomon's 
" Moses," the mother of the deliverer 
of Israel is taking farewell of him be- 
fore he is deposited among the bul- 
rushes. The sister of Moses waits be- 
side holding the basket, and, standing 
upright, peers over her mother's arm at 
the child. Their faces, although, it 
appears to us, a little too dark, are full of 
expression and characteristic tenderness. 
The colour throughout this picture is 
extremely good, the varying textures of 
the dresses excellently rendered, and the 
accessories all displaying thought and 
originality. " Early Morning in the 
Wilderness of Shurr," by Mr. F. Good- 
all, is a large work, representing an 
Arab sheikh addressing his tribe before 
they break up an encampment at the 
hills of Moses, on the eastern shore of 
the Red Sea. Tliis is solidly and power- 
fully painted, has much variety of cha- 
racter in it, and appears to have been 
executed, either on the spot, direct from 
nature, or from faithful sketches of 
nature. Mr. John. Brett's elaborate and 
delicate study from the margin of a 
plantation, where a hedger is mending 
a wattled fence, does him infinite honour 
for the care and fidelity with which he 
has rendered all the herbage and wild- 
flowers about. Some fine roses are de- 
licious in colour and freshness ; and, 
although believing the hyacinths that 

are in the front to be a little positive 
in blue, we say so under the correction 
of so cunning a Tenderer of nature as 
the artist. This picture is styled, from 
the figure it contains, " The Hedger." 
Unquestionably this figure is thin in 
execution, and does not come out so 
solidly as it should. 

Mr. A. Solomon' s " Drowned,Drowned, " 
is a large picture, showing the arrival of 
a party of rakes from a masquerade, in 
costume, at the foot of Waterloo Bridge, 
just as a waterman has rescued from the 
river the body of a girl, an unfortunate, 
who has cast herself away in despair. 
We are to suppose that the foremost of 
these men has been the cause of the 
wretched girl's ruin ; and now, coming 
suddenly upon her corpse, thus dragged, 
foul and dripping, from the river, he 
stands aghast and horrified at the spec- 
tacle, checks instinctively the advance 
of a female companion, who, clinging to 
his arm, comes gaily along, heedless of 
her own fate. Behind is another man 
similarly accompanied, his companion 
coquetting with him. A policeman kneels 
before the dead girl, casting the light of 
his lanthorn on her face, so that it 
is clearly seen. The waterman points 
out to a bystander the place he brought 
the body out from, and is dilating upon 
the event and his own share . in it 
especially. A girl with a basket of 
violets upon her head stands behind, 
looking commiseratingly upon the lost 
one. There is a fine perception of cha- 
racter shown in the treatment of this 
last figure. She is one of those hard 
women, whom misfortune -has made 
undemonstrative, to say the least, if not 
cold-hearted ; so she only stands by, and 
seems to give but a general look of 
sympathy to the spectacle before her. 
If the artist had treated this subject 
with more complete fidelity, that is, 
actually painted the background on 
the spot it represents, and needfully 
rendered the locality, and, above all, 
the effect of cold early dawn rising 
over" the city, the awful stillness of 
which would have given a solemnity to 
the event, we should have had a far 
more moving picture than the present, 


Sir Charles Trevelyan and Mr. Wilson. 

which has undeniably "been executed in 
the studio, and therefore does not render 
the subtler qualities of nature, which, 
rightly rendered, would have been an 
immense help to the motive of the 
whole. As it is, the picture is grimy 
rather than forceful, and heavy rather 
than - clear. This prosaic method of 
working has, in short, injured the 
poetry of the subject. 

The omission of the two upper rows 
of pictures from this gallery is really a 
great improvement, and gives a notable 
appearance of size to the rooms. Pic- 
tures placed on those rows of yore could 
never be seen, and were ever the misery 
of their painters, who, naturally "enough, 
complained bitterly of the result of their 
confidence in the justice of the hangers. 
The very small number of miniatures 
also is a novelty, which we fear tells of 

the havoc made by photography amongst 
the professors of the agreeable little art. 
The Octagon Room contains only prints. 
Among the sculptures, Baron Maro- 
chetti's "Portrait marble statuette" 
of a child, although not particularly 
original in design, has a manly breadth 
of treatment about it that is agreeable. 
Mr. Thomas Woolner's bust of Sir 
William Hooker is a noble specimen of 
artistic skill in the very highest order 
of art faithful, finished, naturalistic, 
yet delicate and vigorous to an un- 
equalled degree. The same artist's three 
medallion portraits of Messrs. Norman, 
Crawford, and A. A. Knox, are fine 
examples of sound treatment. Mr. A. 
Munro has several portraits in marble, 
displaying his usual pleasing and grace- 
ful style of execution. 



A GRAVE event has befallen India 
the gravest, I believe, in its conse- 
quences, whether for good or evil, that 
has happened since the rebellion. A 
Governor, who promised to show him- 
self the best that has ruled in that 
country since the days of Lord William 
Bentinck, whose trusted subordinate he 
was once, has been, through his own 
indiscretion, suddenly recalled, and is 
believed to have anticipated that recall 
by resignation. 

Through his own indiscretion. There 
is no blinking the fact. As Governor of 
Madras, Sir Charles Trevelyan was sub- 
ordinate to the Council of the Governor- 
General of India, sitting at Calcutta. 
A financial scheme for all India had 
been put forth publicly, in a speech 
of great power, by a gentleman sent 
out from this country for the express 
purpose of taking charge of Indian 
finance, and a bill founded on that 
scheme had been introduced, with the 
sanction of the Governor-General, into 
the Legislative Council. Sir Charles 
Trevelyan, deeming that scheme and 

bill mischievous and fatal as respects 
the Presidency over which he was Go- 
vernor, not only remonstrated against it, 
and drew up a scheme on wholly oppo- 
site principles, which he embodied in a 
minute, and which obtained the assent 
of his colleagues, members of the Madras 
Council, bxit, without consulting them, 
without previous sanction from his offi- 
cial superiors, on his sole responsibility, 
sent that minute to the public press. 
Nor is it possible to deny that in the 
tone of the minute, as well as in the 
fact of its publication, there is much 
that is inconsistent with the require- 
ments of public duty. 

But there is a discretion which may 
lose a country. There is an indiscretion 
which may save it. I believe that Sir 
Charles Trevelyan's indiscretion was 
such. I need not say I am sure, had he 
not believed this, he never would have 
committed it. 

Let us look the fact in the face. It 
is proposed to impose at once three ab- 
solutely new taxes upon from 150 to 
180 millions of people. It is admitted 

Sir Charles Trevelyan and Mr. Wilson, 


by the proposer that there are " abso- 
lutely no data upon which any reliable 
" calculation can be made of their result." 

I say that the history of mankind 
affords no instance of such an experi- 
ment, carried out on such a scale. I say 
that it is perfectly impossible for me to 
conceive of its succeeding under such 
conditions. I say that the deepest 
gratitude is owing to the first man who 
comes forward and shows under what 
conditions, within what limits, it cannot 
succeed, and therefore should not be tried. 

Now I do not wish to be misunder- 
stood. Mr. Wilson left this country, 
not perhaps amid such a chorus of uni- 
versal good opinion as the applause of 
farewell meetings and dinners might lead 
one to think, but still with the reputation 
of a very able, very hard-working, and 
very experienced financier. I think his 
scheme a very able one. I wish to see 
it tried, on a safe and limited scale. I 
hope it may succeed, so as eventually to 
be applicable on a larger one. Even 
were it to fail, I believe him to be 
entitled to our very great gratitude for 
devising it. Anything more absurd, 
anything more wicked than our financial 
administration of India hitherto, it is 
impossible to conceive. We have so 
ruled a land of the utmost fertility, 
capable of producing everything under 
heaven, with a practical monopoly of 
growth as respects several articles in 
great demand, teeming with a docile and 
industrious population, as to have a 
deficit in thirty-three years out of the 
last forty-six (18141860), a surplus 
only in thirteen, the net total deficit 
amounting to nearly sixty-four millions. 
Mr. Wilson conies, and [says : This 
shall be no longer. All thanks to him 
for so doing. He says : I will do no 
further towards sapping the productive 
powers of the country at their very root 
by adding to the weight of the land-tax. 
I will tax production in its fruits, and 
consumption in its enjoyments. Right 
again, most right. But when he conies 
to the specific measures for applying 
these principles a tax on incomes, a 
licence-duty for trades, a duty on tobacco 
then the whole question of specific merit 

is opened up as to every one of these 
taxes, and the application of every one, 
and the figure of every one. A tax 
may be admirable as respects ten millions 
of people, detestable as respects the ten 
next millions, their neighbours. Admit 
if you like and I sincerely trust it is 
so that Mr. Wilson's taxes are per- 
fectly adapted for Northern India, which 
he has seen, what possible ground can 
there be for supposing that they are 
equally adapted to Central and Southern 
India, which he has not seen ] 

Let us test this by a comparison. In 
the year 2060, North American con- 
querors have established their dominion 
over the whole of Europe, minus part of 
Russia, a few small European states re- 
maining here and there as their tribu- 
taries, but all the present distinctions of 
race, language, habits, religion, remain- 
ing the same, and the relation between 
conquerors and conquered being com- 
plicated by the fact that the former are 
Mormonites, whose creed is abhorrent to 
European notions. They have not shoAvn 
themselves able financiers ; the surplus 
revenues of every most flourishing state 
have mostly vanished upon its annexa- 
tion ; yearly deficits have been, for a 
length of time, the rule, A.fter a dan- 
gerous rebellion, a shrewd Yankee is 
sent from Connecticut to set the finances 
of America's European empire straight. 
He takes a rapid run vid Southampton 
and London, through Belgium and North 
Germany, re turns to Hamburg,[the capital 
of the empire, and three months after 
arrival, puts forth a new budget, im- 
posing three spick and span_ new taxes 
on the whole population, from the North 
Cape to Gibraltar, averring beforehand 
that he cannot calculate what they will 
bring in. Whereupon, a subordinate 
official, of very great European as well 
as American experience, who only rules 
over France, Spain, and Portugal, gets up 
and says : " Your scheme won't do in 
any way for the countries under my 
charge ; I undertake for them to restore 
the balance between income and expen- 
diture without new taxes, by merely 
reducing expenditure." Now, judging ot 
the twenty-first century by the lights 


Sir Charles Trevelyan and Mr. Wilson. 

of the nineteenth, should not we hold 
that both might be quite right within 
the sphere of their own experience; but 
the shrewd Yankee most probably quite 
wrong in attempting to tax France, 
Spain, Portugal, Italy, Greece, Turkey, 
Hungary, half Germany, half the British 
Isles, not to speak of the Scandinavian 
countries, from his three months' expe- 
rience of Southern England, Belgium, 
and half Germany? Why do we not 
see that what would be folly in the 
twenty-first century is folly in the nine- 
teenth ? 

I believe, for my own part, Sir Charles 
Trevelyan had thoroughly calculated the 
cost of his own indiscretion. I believe 
he thought, and thought rightly, that 
the only appeal against the monstrous 
folly of Calcutta centralization which 
could save the country committed to his 
charge, lay to public opinion. I believe 
that, to make that appeal, he voluntarily 
sacrificed, not place and power alone, 
which he could well afford, but reputa- 
tion. I believe that the. true answer to 
that appeal on the part of his ultimate 
superiors in this country would have 
been not to recall him, as they have 
done ; not to send him to Calcutta, as 
Mr. Danby Seymour foolishly advised 
but to have hurried a bill through both 
houses, declaring the Madras Presidency, 
for a twelvemonth at first, exempt from 
the jurisdiction of the Council in India, 
and to have cast upon Sir Charles the 
full responsibility of making good his 
own pledges ; or, better still, to have 
at once authorized him by despatch to act 
upon those principles, and then to have 
come before Parliament with a bill of 
indemnity for themselves and for him. 

For, if we will look into the heart of 
the matter, which Mr. Bright alone has 
done hitherto, the fault of all this lies in 
the insane concentration of power in 
the Calcutta Council 

If any one were to put before us 
the problem : How are 180 millions of 
people, speaking twenty or thirty dif- 
ferent languages, following four different 
religions (themselves split up into in- 
numerable sects), varying almost ad 
infinitum in race, colour, customs, modes 

of life, thought, and feeling, to be 
governed by 100,000 men of another 
race, colour, and religion, and of strik- 
ingly different customs, modes of thought 
and feeling, from all the rest?' I suppose 
the very last solution which would occur 
to any one would be this : You shall 
establish a legislative and administrative 
body at one extremity of the country, 
which shall have supreme control over 
the whole, so that there shall be, as far 
as possible, one law, one police, one 
system of government taxation, affecting 
the whole of these 180 millions of men, 
and reducing them, as far as the domi- 
nant 100,000 can succeed in doing so, 
to unity and nationality. Now this is 
precisely the task which England has 
set before herself in governing India. 
One might have thought that the late 
rebellion would have roused her to a 
sense of the mischiefs attending its ful- 
filment ; since that rebellion was only 
put down by means of such remnants 
of local autonomy as still subsist in our 
military organization, whereby the native 
armies of Bombay and Madras were 
rendered available to subdue the rebel- 
lious native army of Bengal ; or by 
means of such temporary autonomy as 
was allowed to Sir John Lawrence in 
the Punjab, and was exercised on a 
smaller scale, in fact, in a hundred 
separate localities, by every individual 
English official who was not carried 
away by the flood. Yet the lesson seems 
to have been utterly thrown away, and 
our whole empire is to be staked on the 
cast of a die, since Mr. Wilson himself 
practically admits that his three new 
taxes amount to no more. 

It is not indeed four independent 
governments which India wants, but 
twenty or thirty to be entirely self- 
ruled within, with power to federate 
for economical purposes, but with no 
other subordination except direct to the 
mother-country. Possibly, the power of 
making peace and war might be vested 
in a supreme governor- general ; but 
since India is no farther from us now 
in point of time than were the West 
Indies thirty years ago, it seems diffi- 
cult to believe that even this can ba 

Sir Charles Trevelyan and Mr. Wilson. 


strictly necessary ; indeed half our In- 
dian wars ere this, I suspect, would 
have been saved by the absence of 
such a power. I believe it is impos- 
sible to calculate the wondrous de- 
velopment of local activity and life 
which such a decentralization would call 
out ; the vigour of root which Euro- 
pean intellect might then show forth, 
striking deep into a soil which it now 
only languidly trails over, in the con- 
stant expectation of being transplanted 
from high to low, from bleak to sunny, 
from clay to sand ; the improved pro- 
cesses of government which emulation 
would then realize. I believe that Sir 
Charles Trevelyan' s self-sacrifice will 
bear its fruits ; that Indian centraliza- 
tion will reel and crumble beneath the 
very weight of his fall ; that men will 
no longer be satisfied with a mock iini- 
formity of rule, which requires, for the 
success of its experiments, that such 
a man should be driven from his post. 
The autonomy of the Presidencies is the 
least result which I expect from his 
indiscretion. God grant that it may 
not have to realize itself through the 
preliminary process of a rebellion, in 
precisely that portion of India which 
passed almost scatheless through the 

This is not the time to discuss, in 
their application to India, the three 
great methods of equalizing income and 
expenditure reduction of expenditure ; 
increased taxation ; or increased expen- 
diture for reproductive purposes. I 
have confined myself hitherto simply to 
one point the utter absurdity of sup- 
posing that an entirely new system of 
taxation can be enforced all at once 
throughout all India. I do not wish 
to complicate with details that simple 
point, self-evident when once perceived, 
only not perceived, I venture to think, 
through that political short sight which 
renders some men actually incapable of 
perceiving things on account of their 
very evidence just as, I take it, the 
limited vision of the mole renders it 
incapable of realizing the bulk of the 
elephant. "With the highest admiration 
for Sir Charles Trevelyan's character, I 

am far from approving of many of his 
acts since his assumption of the govern- 
ment of Madras ; his conduct towards 
one great Indian family in particular 
to judge from a recent pamphlet by 
Mr. J. B. Norton painfully recalls old 
Leadenhall-street officialism. But I am 
bound to say that, as respects this finan- 
cial scheme, even in matters of detail, 
there is strong reason to think that Sir 
Charles Trevelyan is, for Madras, right 
altogether. A landowner in his own 
Presidency writes thus (15th March), 
knowing as yet only Mr. Wilson's 
scheme, and not Sir Charles's opposition 
to it : 

" You will have read Wilson's great 
" speech. ... Its delivery will mark an 
' Indian epoch ; but his scheme of 
1 native taxation is another affair. I 
' hope that will not also mark an 
' epoch. I go thoroughly along with 
' the principles, adopt every one of 
' them where practicable ; but how can 
' they be practicable in Madras, where 
' the European collectors and assistants 
' are the sole reliable instruments in 
' each province for assessing the licence 
' and income tax ] Trust the duty to 
' the amlahs, and see if the natives 
' will pay. In Madras, the artizans and 
' small shopkeepers are, as a rule, too 
' poor to pay. Wilson has planned an 
1 admirable machine, and has to learn 
' that he is without the power of setting 
' it in motion." 

Again, as to Sir Charles's undertaking 
to meet expenditure by retrenchment, 
I can only add that an Indian officer of 
. great experience in military administra- 
tion in Bombay, and as free from rash- 
ness by temperament as he is by age, 
has expressed to me the confident belief 
that the thing is perfectly feasible not 
in Madras, about which he knows little, 
and Sir Charles may be fairly supposed 
to know much but in Bombay, which, 
it has been publicly stated, has never 
yet paid its own expenses. 

If it be asked, Why should Mr. 
Wilson's taxes be good for Northern 
India, bad for Southern? the answer 
should be quite sufficient, For the same 
reason that taxes or charges which 


Sir Charles Trevelyan and Mr. Wilson. 

suit England do not suit France, and 
vice versd so that octroi duties would 
drive Englishmen to rebellion, as turn- 
pike tolls would Frenchmen so that 
we could as little bear a tobacco mono- 
poly as France an income-tax. But for 
those who know anything of Indian 
history, the answer is plainer still. 
Northern India has capital; Southern, 
with a few exceptions, has not. The 
Madras Presidency, though now, thank 
God, rapidly recovering under a milder 
system, has for half a century been 
drained by the force-pump of ryotwar, 
or annual, settlements of the land re- 
venue, except in those few districts for- 
merly attached to Bengal, where a 
permanent settlement has been allowed 
to subsist. These being accepted, 
unless at her capital, in the persons 
of a few native chieftains exception- 
ally treated, and in those of her 
money-lenders-, she has no taxable in- 
comes. Still less, as the above-quoted 
letter indicates, has she trades which 
would bear a licence-duty. The reverse 
is the case in Bengal, where the perma- 
nent settlement has favoured the accu- 
mulation of capital- in the northern 
provinces, where a third system of land 
revenue has at least not wholly destroyed 
it. Let a few years pass, and out of her 
noAv accruing income Madras will have 
accumulated capital sufficient to bear 
Mr. Wilson's burthens. At present, 
they would stop the very power of 
accumulation, and thus run counter to 
the very principles of his own budget. 

A singular want of judgment, it may 
be observed, has hitherto attended the 
recall of India's governors. Such a 
punishment, or its equivalent, has in- 
variably reached those who were among 
her ablest and best. Lord Macartney 

lost the governor-generalship because he 
would not take it without the power 
of overruling his council, which was 
straightway granted to his successor. 
Lord Wellesley was worried out of office 
by " the ignominious tyranny of Leaden- 
hall Street." Lord William Bentinck 
was recalled from Madras for not having 
prevented a plot which never existed. 
Sir Charles Metcalfe was not suffered to 
retain permanently the governor-general- 
ship. Lord Ellenborough was recalled, 
after saving an empire which Lord 
Auckland had done his best to lose. 
He lost office in the Board of Control 
for writing a despatch which, as we 
know now from Mr. Eussell's Diary, 
embodied the universal feeling of all on 
the spot who were qualified to judge ; 
the spirit of which was, in practice, 
carried out from the first out of sheer 
necessity, and has eventually received 
the most signal homage through the 
acts of Lord Canning himself. Sir 
Charles Trevelyan now adds his name 
to the noble list of India's luckless ones. 
He may well be proud of his company. 


Through an untoward misprint, the word 
" Pantheiism" was, in the last sentence but 
one of Mr. Ludlow's article on " Spiritualistic 
Materialism " (vol. ii. p. 51), printed as " Pan- 
theism," and the greater portion of the impres- 
sion went off before the error could be re- 
medied. The phrase should stand thus : 

"But against such Pantheism, overt or 
latent, in the gristle or in the bone, there is 
no better preservative than the Pantheiism, if 
I may use the term, of Christianity." 

The writer would not, but for what has 
happened, have deemed it necessary to point 
out that the distinction he sought to establish 
was between the looking upon all as God 
), and upon all as from God, or divine 


JULY, 1860. 



THE surface of the earth has gold- 
fields intellectual, as it has material. 
Take a map of Switzerland, draw a line 
SS.W. from about Bale to Martigny, 
not straight, but incurved so as to follow 
the valleys of the Upper Birse, the 
middle Aare, and the Saane, and you 
will have marked out one of such, of 
which the Eldorado diggings, or richest 
nugget-nest, will be found at the south- 
western extremity. "Within that field, 
about as large as Norfolk, Suffolk, and 
Essex together, more of intellectual 
power has been developed than in many 
a great empire ; in that Eldorado corner 
a good three-fifths of the whole has 
taken its rise. The tract in question 
embraces the Jura chain and the greater 
part of the valley between its eastern 
slopes and the western ones of the Alps, 
so far as the Gallic tide has extended 
until met and arrested by the Teutonic. 
With an outlying district or two, such 
as the valley of the Upper Rhone as far 
as Visp, it represents French Switzer- 

Strange to say, indeed, this gold-field 
is but of comparatively recent discovery. 
Three centuries alone have seen its trea- 
sures brought to light. Nothing in the 
earlier history of Switzerland foretold its 
splendours. The great names of that 
earlier history are all German. From Tell 
to Zwingli the Teutonic race has a mo- 
nopoly of Swiss glory. Basel not yet 
Bale is in some respects the Geneva of 

No. 9. VOL. ii. 

the early half of the sixteenth century, 
a centre of free thought. From Fro- 
ben's presses are poured forth the 
works of Erasmus, of Luther ; Erasmus 
comes to die beside his friend. French 
Switzerland only wakens up from the 
day when Farel, the restless apostle of 
French Protestantism, invading Swit- 
zerland, carries Neufchatel as by assault 
(1530), and on his return from a synod 
of the Waldenses of Piedmont, stops 
at Geneva (1532), where in three years 
(1532-5) the bishop's yoke is broken 
from off the city, and political inde- 
pendence is the fruit of religious reform. 
Farel is succeeded by those other great 
Frenchmen, Calvin and De Beze, and 
under them grows up that marvellous 
theocracy which, however stern and 
oppressive it may show itself to us 
under some of its aspects, yet made 
Geneva one of the very centres of Eu- 
ropean thought. Think of one small 
town having given in three centuries, to 
physical science Saussure, Deluc, De 
Candolle, Huber; Charles Bonnet to 
metaphysics ; to jurisprudence, Bur- 
lamaqui, Delolme, Dumont (not to 
speak of our Romilly, a Genevese watch- 
maker's son) ; to history, Sismondi, 
Guizot ; Necker and Sismondi again to 
political economy; to diplomacy, Albert 
Gallatin ; to literature proper, Rousseau 
and Madame de Stael, besides the Dio- 
datis, Leclercs, Senebiers, Mallets, Pictets. 
and other miscellaneous celebrities. 



Swiss-French Literature : Madame de Gasparin. 

Protestantism, therefore, may be said 
to have created French Switzerland; 
Protestantism is that which has made it 
entitled to stand out before Europe ag 
the representative of all Switzerland. 
It is easy to see why. If there be one 
marked characteristic of. the Swiss race, 
it is its individualism. Inhabiting for 
the most part a very thinly populated 
country, always at wax, so to speak, 
with nature, since even his sunniest 
valleys are swept by the wintry moun- 
tain blasts, the Switzer is obliged to 
earn his own living, to fight his own 
way. He is essentially a worker and a 
fighter ; shrewd, prudent, determined ; 
endowed with more good sense than 
genius ; his thrift shading easily into 
avarice ; a trader even when he fights. 
Now the Calvinistic reformation is the 
most individualizing of all the theolo- 
gical movements of the sixteenth cen- 
tury, and it was thus admirably adapted 
to the tendencies of the Swiss mind, 
whilst the position of Geneva, as a 
harbour for French Protestantism when- 
ever expelled by fire and sword from its 
own country, and thereby in constant 
antagonism with Romanist France, 
tended to develop this character to the 
uttermost. Not, indeed, but what the 
Protestant cantons of German Switzer- 
land have always held a respectable 
place in the intellectual annals of Eu- 
rope. Haller, of Berne ; J. von Miiller, 
of Schaflhausen ; and, above all the 
sons of Zurich, the "Athens of German 
Switzerland," the Gessners, Lavater, 
Tschudi, Zimmermann, with Zchokke 
in our own days, give to that district 
quite a fair average of literary and sci- 
entific merit. But already on the border- 
land between Gaul and German, at 
Bale (which now every year becomes 
more French), the Bernouillis and Euler 
are French in language ; and it is un- 
questionable that to French Switzer- 
land belong those few really great Swiss 
names which stamp themselves upon 
their age, the Rousseaus, De Staels, 
Guizots. Romanism, moreover, con- 
tinued to cling to the rock-summits of 
German Switzerland, harbouring with it 
ignorance and intellectual torpor, at the 

very heart of the old Teutonic nucleus 
of the land. And thus it came to pass, 
as I said, that wherever Swiss indivi- 
dualism had to speak out before Europe, 
it did so mainly in French. 

Conversely again, we need not be 
surprised to find that if there be one 
character which distinguishes Swiss- 
French literature and science, it is pre- 
cisely this individualism. Here we find 
ourselves dealing with men who think 
for themselves. Their very mediocrity 
becomes thus original by the force of 
circumstances. Was there ever a 
heavier writer, a more mediocre thinker 
than Necker ? And yet that Genevese 
banker, standing in his plebeian respec- 
tability amid the brilliant French court, 
daring to declare, in an age of prodi- 
gality and insolvency, that economy is 
a public duty, that it is the business 
of kings to rule for the good of their 
siibjects, has an originality which it is 
impossible to mistake in contemporary 
pictures, and becomes thereby for a time 
the very idol of a nation. Dumont is 
not a man of very' great genius ; but 
he has the originality to discover Bent- 
ham, who for twenty years perhaps is 
scarcely known except in Dumont's 

These Swiss-French have thus, in the 
modern history of France herself, an 
importance which no impartial observer 
should overlook. They represent that 
principle of individualism which the 
French Reformation tended perhaps 
unduly to develop, which generations of 
despotism, from Richelieu downwards, 
took every pains to trample out. The 
type-man of them all, the man whose 
value we Englishmen are least apt to 
appreciate, is Rousseau. What is 
Rousseau's essential function in the 
eighteenth century ? Above all, to 
stand up against that last despot whom 
a Frenchman will yet obey, when he 
has cast off every other yoke, King 
Wit, then lording it over Europe under 
the name of Voltaire, I know of no 
greater marvel in history than the in- 
fluence of Rousseau. In an essentially 
spirituel age, without a particle of esprit, 
in an essentially courtly age, a mere 

Swiss-French Literature : Madame de Gasparin. 


boor, devoid of every worldly advan- 
tage, incapable of joining or leading 
school, sect, or party, he becomes, he, 
Jean Jacques the misanthrope, a very 
power in the world, balancing even that 
of the lord of Ferney. No one can 
fairly judge Eousseau except in contrast 
with Voltaire. The relation between 
them is that of absolute antagonism. 
The one is essentially positive, the other 
essentially negative. The life of the one 
is one long struggle oh, through what 
hideous failures often ! to do good. 
The highest efforts of the other are but 
to undo evil with what noble success 
indeed sometimes, let the name of Galas 
testify. It is easy for us to rail at 
Rousseau's " rose-pink " sentiment, at 
the immorality of Julie or St. Preux. 
But place them beside the " Pucelle," 
and then see to what immorality that 
tale of passion really was the antidote. 
"When shall we practically learn that 
God's medicine is not more timid than 
man's ? that He too knows in what 
proportions even poisons may be used 
to check or quell disease 1 Unwhole- 
some as Eousseau' s works may be for 
the nineteenth century, they were price- 
less for the eighteenth. Voltaire was 
for ever crushing out all enthusiasm; 
Eousseau for ever kindling it ; Voltaire 
was essentially an intellectual aristocrat ; 
Eousseau, the ex-lackey, never ceased to 
be one of the many. Whatever of noble 
and generous, of loving and self-sacri- 
ficing, lived amid the fires of the French 
revolution and survived them, one man 
above all others has France to thank 
for it under God, Eousseau the Genevese. 
Nor would it, I believe, be sufficient 
to give Switzerland the credit of 
Eousseau's influence, her native-born 
son. It is characteristic of all countries 
with strongly-marked natural features, 
of all nations with strongly-marked 
generic qualities, that they impress a 
perceptible influence upon the guests 
who come to sojourn among them. 
Neither Calvin nor De Beze would pro- 
bably have been in France what they 
were at Geneva. Still less, I believe, 
would Voltaire have been anywhere 
else what he was at Ferney. To that 

period belong the purest pages of his 
history, such as that story of Galas to 
which I have referred. The persevering 
pluck which he displayed in it would 
have been physically impossible in Paris. 
I believe it would have been no less 
beyond his moral reach amidst the fri- 
volous corruption of French society. 
There blows through it all, as it were, a 
waft of free mountain air. 

Between Eousseau and the next great 
name which I shall have to mention, 
Switzerland gives to France one no 
longer of splendour, but of infamy. 
This time, however, it is right to say 
that it is not free Geneva, but Neuf- 
chatel, completely under the thumb of 
wooden Fried richian Prussianism, which 
sends forth the most hideous figure of 
the French Eevolution, Marat. And 
yet I do not know but what, even in 
this portent of humanity, we may 
recognise the distinctive individualism 
of the Swiss character. Mediocre in all' 
things, the time exhibits no other 
instance of mediocrity so self-sufficient, 
and rising to such importance. The 
man thoroughly dares to be that which 
he is hence his power. Marat with 
his greasy cap and scurvied frame is, 
after all, but the loathsome caricature of 
Eousseau "the savage," as he was called, 
md called himself. The peculiarity of 
both men is that they are always ready 
to stand defiant against those who are 
held to be their fellow-combatants. 
Marat quails as little before Danton or 
Eobespierre, as Eousseau before Voltaire 
or Diderot. 

But Geneva boasts no such heroes as 
Marat. Other names are hers. Not to 
speak of the Dumonts, Clavieres, Mallet 
Dupans, who represent her during the 
revolutionary crisis, what Eousseau 
is in one century, Madame de Stael 
is at the beginning of the next. We 
need not emulate the admiration of the 
generation which preceded us for Ma- 
dame de Stael's writings in themselves. 
But her historical greatness can, I think, 
but grow. It is one of contrast, like 
that of Eousseau. You must measure 
her by him against whom she measured 
herself. Only when we have appre- 



Swiss-French Literature : Madame de Gasparin. 

ciated the colossal and yet fascinating 
greatness of the First Napoleon, as he 
showed himself, -with Greek profile and 
eagle eye, springing up, as it were, from 
the ruins, from the ashes of old France, 
young, beautiful, brave, mighty ; in war, 
driving the nations asunder before his 
sword ; in peace, making the walls of a 
new social order to rise about him from 
the ground, as to the sound of some 
magic lyre, a sort of Phoebus- Ares or 
Balder- Odin among men, only then 
can we discern also the strange greatness 
of that woman's voice lifted against him 
in protest, from Coppet or elsewhere; 
not dwelling on old traditions, like De 
Maistre or Chateaubriand ; not backed, 
like our English statesmen, by Tory 
obstinacy and national pride, but sing- 
ing alone, as it were in the very ears of 
the despot, the weird and deadly song of 
the future, the song of Freedom and of 
Pece, of the fraternal independence of 
the nations. Very wonderful was the 
power of that voice. Years after her 
death it seemed yet to murmur in music 
round every name that had once been 
familiar to it ; and the selfish and scep- 
tical Benjamin Constant died the object 
of a nation's reverence because Madame 
de Stael had once chanced to care for 
him, and had for a time kindled his dry 
heart into indignation and eloquence. 
It is hardly too much to say that the 
spirit of Madame de Stael was that 
which presided over that, on the whole, 
very noble period in the history of 
French liberalism, its fifteen years 
of opposition under the government 
of the Restoration. Nor can we deem 
her influence wholly extinct so long 
as a De Broglie thinks and writes, 
and lives respected. So great is the 
debt of France to, that other noble 

And what greater name do we find in 
France, during that period of fifteen 
years and the next of eighteen which 
follows it, than that of Guizot ? If we 
look to his worth as a writer, he and 
that other Swiss (though not by descent), 
Sismondi, are in truth the fathers, under 
both its leading aspects, of the present 
historical school Sismondi exhibits to 

us the patient research into original 
authorities, without which all historical 
thought is baseless ; Guizot, along with 
this, that keen questioning of facts till 
they yield up their inmost meaning, 
without which historic research remains 
fruitless. If we look to Guizot's poli- 
tical career, on the other hand, though 
the close of it is to me singularly pain- 
ful and unworthy of him, who can 
deny that for some years the Swiss pro- 
fessor had made himself not only the 
foremost man in France, but one of the 
two or three foremost in Europe ? And 
if he failed, why was it, but because 
he stooped from Swiss independence 
to the practice of Louis Philippian 
despotism ? 

Shall we take some less ambitious 
names, though no less likely to endure ? 
I will single out two, in wholly different 
spheres: Agassiz, of Fribourg, and Vinet, 
of Lausanne. The country that has pro- 
duced two such names in a generation 
may well rest satisfied. Agassiz, one of the 
greatest of contemporary naturalists, on 
whom, by universal consent, the mantle 
of Cuvier has descended, Vinet, the 
real father of modern French religious 
thought, the most Pascal-like since Pascal 
of French writers. How many names 
of mark within their sphere cluster 
round his the Merle d'Aubigne"s, 
Gaussens, Malans, Celleriers, Bonrets, 
Bosts, Cherbuliez, &c. is well known 
to religious readers ; whilst from him 
proceed directly the two most remark- 
able, though mutually opposed, schools 
of contemporary French theology, those 
of De Pressense" and Scherer. And now 
there has come forth from the same 
quarter one who seems destined to ex- 
ercise, within the sphere of French 
thought, a religious influence more wide- 
spreading, more popular, than any other 
number of her school, the authoress of 
the " Horizons Prochains " and the " Ho- 
rizons Celestes," Madame de Gasparin. 

Of this lady herself, it is sufficient to 
say that she is the wife of Count Age"nor 
de Gasparin, son of that Count de Gas- 
parin who was long a minister under 
Louis Philippe. M. Agenor de Gasparin 
was himself for several years a member 

Swiss-French Literature: Madame de Gasparin, 


of the Chamber of Deputies, where his 
position may be briefly characterised by 
saying that he showed himself there as 
frankly Protestant as M. de Montalem- 
bert showed himself frankly Romanist, 
and won the respect of all. He after- 
wards took a prominent part in the 
formation of that "Free Church" of 
Protestant France, which certainly in- 
cludes within it the most stirring and 
energetic members of the general body. 

Now, if Calvinism in general exhibits 
mainly the individualist side of Chris- 
tian doctrine if the French Calvinistic 
Church, from the circumstances of its 
position as the Church of a long unre- 
cognised and often persecuted minority, 
tends to bring out that individualist side 
with peculiar sharpness if the like 
tendency results in the Swiss Church 
from the national position and charac- 
teristics of the Swiss people it has 
been naturally carried to an extreme by 
the events in the midst of and in op- 
position to which the Vinet school of 
theology grew up, and by the special 
constitution of the " Free Church." 
Those who are in anywise familiar with 
the state of religion on the Continent, 
know that half a century ago an almost 
complete religious deadness spread over 
French Switzerland, that Socinianism, 
following in the wake of despotic and 
aristocratic rule, established its very 
throne at Geneva. Against these two 
tendencies the aristocratic and the So- 
cinian a sort of cross-reaction took 
place. A coarse, vulgar democracy, de- 
void of all religious principle, copied 
from the lowest French models, of which 
M. James Fazy is the too successful 
embodiment, rose up against the old 
Genevese aristocracy, and threw it. A 
spring of earnest, self-devoted, thought- 
ful, sometimes learned, Christian faith 
welled out, and soon carried away, for 
all religious purposes, the dry bones of 
old Socinianism. Meanwhile a strange 
change was taking place. As each 
struggle was unfortunately carried on, 
in great measure, within separate spheres 
as many of the religious reformers 
had not the insight to discern the 
political necessities of their age and 

country, nor the political reformers the 
power to see that political reform, unin- 
spired by religious faith, can end but in 
a mere change of machinery it came 
to pass that the conquerors met in turn 
as opponents, whilst the conquered 
passed, so to speak, each to the service 
of the other conqueror. Religious reform 
became identified with political conserva- 
tism political reform, with irreligion ; 
old Socinianism easily ranging itself, 
under colour of the most absolute Eras- 
tianism, beneath the banners of demo- 
cracy, in order to worst its opponents by 
means of the civil arm. Hence, though 
indeed even less in Geneva than in its 
neighbouring French and Protestant 
canton of Vaud, that shameless op- 
pression of the Church by the majority 
which developed the " Free Church " of 
Vaud. And as Swiss democracy, blindly 
echoing the voice of French, had taken up 
the cry of Socialism an idea which the 
Swiss character seems specially incapable 
of understanding it followed that the 
religious reformers grew to embody in 
that word all the blasphemy, lawless- 
ness, oppression which they saw around 
them. Socialism, as will be seen almost 
anywhere in Vinet's works, is for that 
admirable thinker a mere monster and 
portent. ' He is too much unnerved at 
s'ght of it ever to reach its root-idea, as 
being simply the effort to organize social 
relations, and to elevate that labour into 
a science and an art. He never stops 
to inquire whether the problem, how to 
conciliate the claims of society with 
those of the individual, may not occupy 
some of those socialists whom he in- 
veighs against quite as much as himself. 
Socialism for him must be a dreadful 
conspiracy against individual freedom 
and worth ; the very word of society, 
you would say, makes him almost shiver. 
To understand his vehemence, we must 
remember that for him, as taught by the 
lessons of daily experience, "society" 
meant in practice a knot of ignorant 
parish demagogues pretending to or- 
ganize a Church ; whilst " the indi- 
vidual" was the poor "pasteur" their 

Swiss democracy had been a bad copy 


Swiss-French Literature : Madame de Gasparin. 

of French ; the French " Free Church" 
was a somewhat better copy of the really 
heroic Swiss ones. It is founded, I 
heard it declared by one of its most 
eloqiient champions, M. Pilatte, in one, 
certainly, of the very noblest sermons I 
ever heard, not (as the words might 
seem to follow) on that foundation other 
than which, St. Paul tells us, hath no 
man laid, but upon " individual profes- 
sion." It sets itself in direct opposition 
to the " churches of multitude," as it 
terms those that venture to hold God's 
revealed Will and Love a somewhat 
firmer foundation than the fleeting " pro- 
fession" of man. For their behoof it 
has invented the contemptuous term 
of " multitudinism ; " individualism it 
openly glorifies ; many of its members 
repelling the baptism of those infants, 
likeness to whom, we are told, makes us 
children of the kingdom. How many 
broader and nobler currents flow mingled 
with these, especially in the works of 
M. de Pressense" how the sense of God's 
universal Fatherhood has taken root in 
what would otherwise seem an ungenial 
soil how a deeper study of the Scrip- 
tures and of the fathers, a broader edu- 
cational training, a wider outlook over 
men and things, have induced also a 
catholicity of spirit towards Romanism, 
towards even heathen creeds and phi- 
losophies, an acknowledgment of Christ's 
everlasting and universal working as the 
Light of the world in the minds and 
consciences of men, to which we are 
sadly unaccustomed' in such quarters 
how openly the extreme consequences 
of Calvinistic doctrine have been pro- 
tested against in this bodyj the latest 
offshoot of Calvinism I have not here 
the space to show. 

So much for the quarter whence 
Madame de Gasparin' s works proceed. 
She has been long before the public as an 
author. I have before me the second 
edition, dated 1844, of her earliest work, 
"Marriage from a Christian point of 
view;" so that it must be sixteen 
years and more since she achieved her 
first success as an author. But that 
success was almost limited to the "re- 
ligious" public. And, indeed, between 

these early works and the two last, 
there is all the difference between the 
larva and the butterfly. None of them 
belong indeed quite to the class of those 
quarter or half-pounds of spiritual starch 
commonly called " good books," which 
are as incapable of alone nourishing the 
soul of man as material starch alone his 
body. But it was impossible to guess 
from them the high qualities which dis- 
tinguish the last two ; only in the latest 
predecessor of these, " Some Faults of 
the Christians of our Day" full of 
searching and often caustic truth can 
we now, looking back, discern, as in 
the ripened chrysalis, the folded wings 
which have since outspread themselves 
to the sun. 

The "Near Horizons" went forth last 
year anonymously, not from any special 
Protestant book-shop, but from that of 
the great popular publishers of Paris, 
the Michel Levys. The appeal thus 
made to a wider public than Madame 
de Gasparin had yet addressed was fully 
justified by the result. The value of 
the book was soon pointed out by the 
Revue des Deux Mondes, and ere this 
three editions have appeared. Yet the 
book hardly promised to be popular 
The " Near Horizons " are those of 
heaven itself. The various sketches 
of which the work consists mostly 
have death-beds for subjects, and a 
certain monotony thus runs through 
it, felt indeed only when it is read 
off at once, and which the freshness 
of feeling and language otherwise en- 
tirely keeps off. Yes, freshness ; for 
after her sixteen years of authorship, it 
is only now that Madame de Gasparin, 
young no longer, has completely reached 
the expression of that quality. Fresh- 
ness is the great charm of the book, as 
it is of its successor. You feel that 
you are dealing with one who has 
looked at nature, who has looked at 
religion, at first hand. So wondrous 
are the pictures of nature in the former, 
that it seems at first sight impossible 
they should have been written by any 
other than that sovran queen of French 
landscape painters in words, George 
Sand. And yet soon apart from in- 

/Siviss -French Literature : Madame de Gasparin. 


dications of fact or of doctrine which 
individual knowledge may suggest as 
decisive against the supposition the 
very character of the style declares it 
impossible. George Sand's style is that 
of her favourite scenes of central France, 
with their fat plains or stretches of 
common, never undulating into more 
than hill and dale, with streams swift 
or sluggish, pebbly or clayey, but all 
unconscious of torrent or waterfall: so 
that she must leave Berry for Auvergne 
to find that "Black Town" which she 
was lately depicting to us ; itisRafaelesque 
or Mozartlike in its perfection, vehe- 
ment without roughness, lofty without 
reaching to the sublime. Madame de 
Gasparin's style, on the contrary, is 
essentially a mountain style, hasty often 
and abrupt, -now rushing like a torrent, 
now towering like a rock. Mountains 
too are a leading subject for her pen, 
with their ravines and their pine-trees, 
those Jura Mountains, which already, if 
I mistake not, have proved the main 
source of inspiration for Calame the 
landscape painter, but of which Madame 
de Gasparin may be called the first 
poet, as Rousseau was of the Alps. 

Of Madame de Gasparin's powers 
of word-painting, take the following 
example : 

" It is not yet the time for beautiful fungi, 
those strange creations which sow the wood 
with their warm tints when October has 
stripped the glades flowerless. They are 
queer characters, full of mystery. Some are 
honest, some vicious. I don't speak of the 
deadly ones, I mean the face, the bearing of 
them. Some delicate, milk-white, planted all 
in a ring, as if to mark the spot where the 
fairies danced last night. The others solitary, 
blackish, livid, traitor-faces ruminating some 
crime apart. These purple, doubled with 
orange, spreading forth the magnificence of 
their mantle in the midst of a crowd of grey 
buttons that hold themselves at a distance, a 
pasha in his harem. Those with a silver lustre, 
smooth as silk, with a dome of satin above, 
and spotless ribbing beneath. Some are iri- 
descent, some pale golden. How came they ? 
how go they ? What sun, when autumn mists 
grow heavy on the soil, what sun empurpled 
them, what painted them with sulphur, what 
gave them the rainbow reflections of mother- 
of-pearl? Why does the cow that crops the 
latest plants, that twists off the leaves touched 
with the frost ; why does the sheep wander- 

ing under the bare oak-trees leave them un- 
touched ? I know not." 

The first sketch, "Lisette's Dream," 
the main charm of which lies, however, 
in its descriptions, is directed against 
what, in her next work, the writer will 
call " a Paradise which frightens one." 
Lisette, an old peasant- woman, has 
dreamed of Paradise of a house of 
gold, bright as the sun of midday, 
wherein she saw a fair old lady, severe 
and yet sweet of mien, who sat and 
knitted in perfect bliss, but forbade her 
the door. She is frightened ; such a 
vision of Paradise oppresses her. The 
writer comforts her with the remem- 
brance of the thief on the cross. 

" At this hour, since many a winter, Lisette 
has entered the house of gold. 

" Does she knit, impassive, in beatitude, from 
age to age, beside the silver-haired matron? 
I think not; I believe her to be alive and 
active in heaven as upon earth. Cares have 
passed away ; happiness beams immutable, 
supreme life reveals its mysteries to the 
ardent soul of Lisette." 

"The Three Eoses" represent three 
young girls dying before twenty. All 
three sketches are inimitable in their 
graceful tenderness. I will not spoil 
them by attempting to analyse, but will 
only detach the following paragraph : 

" Little cries answer one another : 
" ' Have you any ?' 'Yes.' ' A good place ?' 

" There is no hunt in which selfishness dis- 
plays itself better than in the hunt after lilies 
of the valley. One holds one's tongue. To 
say no would be lying ; to say yes would be to 
lose one's find. One makes haste ; if scrupu- 
lous, one makes a little murmur which pledges 
one to nothing ; and the treasure once reaped, 
one creeps farther on, very far on, into some 
other odorous nest all sown with white 

The "Tilery," as we may call it, 
takes its name from the description ,of 
an entirely secluded house, inhabited 
by a family of tile-makers, who take 
delight, the wife especially, in their 
loneliness. "The Hegelian" is a tale 
of 1849, placing before us, in striking 
contrast, the wild enthusiasm of German 
revolutionists, and the innocent blood- 
thirstiness of the reactionists : 

"'Shot,' cried the general. . . . Shot the 
chiefs ! shot the soldiers ! shot the imbeciles 


Swiss-French Literature : Madame de Gasparin. 

who let them alone.' As I named to him this 
one and that, the general, with an expressive 
gesture, took aim, winked, pulled the trigger, 
uttered his absurd ' shot/ and then laughed a 
big simpleton laugh." 

Amongst the other Sketches, I would 
chiefly point out "The Poor Boy," 
wonderfully beautiful all through, 
which gives the life of a grotesque 
idiot, maltreated by his father, till, in 
his last illness, the religious sense is 
kindled in him, and he dies in peace. 
" The Pigeon-house," is not " what you 
"think. There is no other pigeon- 
" house but a poor room, no other pigeons 
" than an old man and his wife." It is 
the story of the last years of an old 
Lyonnese upholsterer, a good workman, 
but a shallow and weak mind, coming 
to Paris in the hope of finding work, 
with a wife, his good genius, to whom 
he is tenderly attached; and after 
various ups and downs, losing his 
wife and going off into semi-imbe- 
cility. Though away from her beloved 
mountains, the writer shows here a 
delicate truth of observation and firm- 
ness of touch which could not be sur- 
passed. " Marietta," again, is a charming 
tale of a hideous, though gentle-souled 
dwarf, cared for with the most thought- 
ful delicacy by an old shoemaker, her 

Very slight are for the most part 
these sketches, as, indeed, the writer 
warns us from the first. Their one 
great quality is, that they are all from 
nature, and by one who has eyes to see. 
But they have all of them a singular 
charm of style. The French of these 
Swiss writers, as M. Ste. Beuve has 
observed ere this, has always a pleasant 
archaic provincialism about it, a smack 
of that sixteenth century, so various 
and so free, ere yet France had put on the 
periwig of the " Grand Siecle." This is 
remarkable, amongst other writers, in 
that charming teller of tales Rudolph 
Topffer, the caricaturist schoolmaster, 
whose "Travels in Zigzag," though too 
lengthy, constituted, even before "Tom 
Brown," the first great literary homage 
paid to boy-nature. But apart from 
mere archaisms and provincialisms, the 

style of Madame de Gasparin in her 
"Near Horizons" is full of words and 
expressions which have a sweet country 
smell about them, though the dialect is 
not the same as that with which George 
Sand has made us familiar. Very dif- 
ferent, indeed, is the point of view of 
the Protestant authoress from that of 
her world-famous contemporary; not 
only as being strictly religious, but also 
under the social aspect. Here we have 
only glances cast from above, bright 
and loving indeed, but still not actual 
outlooks from that sphere of artizan and 
labourer life into which George Sand 
seems to have fairly penetrated. It is 
always the great lady, in town or country, 
going forth to help, to comfort, to speak 
of Christ, using, nobly and generously, 
her own social privileges for the benefit 
of others ; it is not a soul oppressed 
with the weight of those very privileges, 
striving and struggling, even, it may be, 
at the cost of sin, to be one with the 
poorest and the lowest. 

The "Heavenly Horizons" is, in its 
success, even a more remarkable work 
than its elder born. Again it has 
been reviewed in the Deux Mondes, by 
Emile Montegut, and with singular 
favour ; again it has reached a third 
edition. Yet this deals no longer with 
nature's glories, even as vehicles for 
higher things, no. longer sketches the 
sunlights or the shadows of human life. 
It is occupied all through directly with 
the highest, gravest subjects, <leath, 
heaven, immortality, resurrection, the 
new creation. If the writer's style has 
forgone the field of its charming rus- 
ticities, yet, struggling with mighty pur- 
poses, it becomes as it were even more 
picturesque than ever in its brave free- 
dom, its bold abruptness. The cardinal 
idea of the book may be said to be a 
protest against the "Paradise which 
frightens one," a Paradise of absorption, 
or even of rest, the " apocryphal Para- 
dise" of the painters, of Dante, a 
" Chinese scene painted with strange 
"figures," as the writer somewhere calls 
it. That the soul does not sleep, that 
personal identity subsists after death, 
that affections are eternal, such are the 

Swiss-French Literature : Madame de Gasparin. 


points on which the writer exhausts her 
most incisive arguments. 

"Who made our affections? God or the 
devil ? Forgive me my precision of terms. Now 
if God put affections into us Himself; if He 
judged His work as good, will He judge it as 
bad all of a sudden, on such a day ? He who 
endowed the earth with attachments so mighty 
and so sweet, could He disinherit heaven of 
them ? Easily could He have placed us in an 
atmosphere of uniform and I will say tasteless 
love, like in all, equal for all, an ocean island- 
less and shoreless. He has not done it. Men 
have imagined this, not God. % 

" Men think monotony great. God finds it 
poor. Just take away from man his pre- 
ferences. Behold, he loves all things and all 
men with identical feelings ; his father no 
more nor less than the generality of old men ; 
that unknown child quite like his own. Friends 
he has none ; or rather you, I, a stranger, the 
Grand Turk at need, we are his friends, in 
the same degree, in the same manner. This 
man is not a man; I see in him arms, legs,;! 
discover no heart. And if really he is alive, if 
it be not an automaton, I say that loving all 
he loves nothing, that I care little for his 
general tendernesses, and that I would rather 
be the neighbour's cat than his wife or his son. 

* * * * 

" Yet this is how men settle heaven, these 
are the guests with which they people it. 

" Oh, how differently God has made it, how 
differently He has made man ! 

" God has created the family, which man 
would not have invented, which in the savage 
state he annihilates, which in the excesses of 
corrupt civilization he ceases to acknowledge, 
which most of our philosophies dissolve. God 
has strongly bound the sheaf, the man to his 
wife, the father to his child. And when with 
a word Paul would depict Roman degradation, 
he writes, ' Men without natural affections.' 

* * * * 

" Yes, there are families up yonder, united 
by indissoluble links, each loving the other 
with a love more solid than earth has known. 
No selfishness narrows it, no unfaithfulness 
befouls it ; neither does the ambition of power 
stifle it, nor the passion of gold dry it up : it 
renews itself without ceasing in the worship 
of God, and that worship quenches it not, but 
makes it shine eternally like itself. 

- Yet Jesus has said that in heaven 
there is no taking nor giving of women in 

" Doubtless. Another condition, other rela- 
tions. Our earthly marriage has consequences 
which future life could not admit of. What is 
transitory ceases, what is immortal subsists. 
Now Christian love is immortal. 

" To convince yourself of this, admit the 
contrary for an instant. Represent to your- 
self Abraham, that mighty individuality," 
(Oh, Madame de Gasparin !) " without Sarah, 
that other individuality," (Oh!) t( so closely 

bound to his own. Go a step further ; 
imagine Jacob indifferent to Rachel. He 
meets her, the gentle beloved, the com- 
panion of his pilgrimages, he meets her in 
this Paradise of uniform tints. No names 
more, no touching memories, no tenderness. 
He meets her, and unmoved in eye, unmoved 
in thought, he glides beside her. A soul taken' 
at haphazard inspires him with the like love. 
The mother of Joseph, the mother of Benja- 
min, he feels nothing towards her which he 
does not feel in the same degree for any other 
inhabitant of heaven. Ah ! she whom weeping 
he laid on the road to Bethlehem, she remains 
there still. Both are dead. The beings whom 
in higher regions you call yet Rachel, Jacob, 
have nothing in common with the hearts which 
burned here below with a love at once so 
divine and so human. I recognise them no 

* * * 

"Be it so. But with the persistency of the 
affections you introduce sorrow into Paradise. 
All whom you love, will they have a place 
there ? Are you sure of finding them there ? 
A father, a child. . . . 

" I fall at thy feet, my God ! I fall with a cry 
which is an act of faith. Thou wilt save them, 
Thou wilt fetch them ; beneath Thy fervent 
love all hardening of heart shall melt. If it 
should be otherwise ! . . . . My God,* have 
pity on me 1 I know that Thou lovest them ; 
I know that Thou wilt wipe away my tears ; I 
believe with all my soul that Thou wilt not 
wipe them away whilst narrowing my heart. 
Thou comfurtest by giving; Thou takest 
nought away of that which is good, that 
which Thyself hast found very good. And 
then, behold a mystery : Thyself, God, 
from the bosom of Thine immutable felicity, 
Ihou seest those that have lost themselves. 
Yet Thy Love and Thy Charity remain ; Thou 
hast not sacrificed Thy love to Thy felicity. 
Veiled harmonies these, but of which I hear 
the far off echo. 

" What Thy omniscience did for Thee, Thy 
compassions will do for me. 

"My love shall not die. Struck all along 
the road, covered with wounds, not thus shall 
I enter the kingdom of God ; bleeding and 
maimed. The God before whom despair takes 
flight will not chase it away by dispersing to 
the four winds the ashes of my recollections. 
Indifference shall not cure me of sorrow. My 
God has other remedies for suffering which 
has just loved. 

"My tendernesses will live, Lord, as Thy 
love, as Thy tendernesses. Thy heart, Jesus 
risen from the dead, is my warrant for my 
heart's vitality." 

In the earlier pages of her book, 
Madame de Gasparin says, that she only 
speaks to those whom she terms " the 
redeemed," those who have felt their 
guilt and their impotency, and have 


Swiss-French Literature : Madame de Gasparin. 

fallen at God's feet imploring mercy. 
And yet, apart from its scriptural in- 
stances, what is the passage I have 
quoted but a fervid appeal to the 
common humanity of every one of us, 
"Jews, Turks, Infidels, and Heretics" 
as well as Christians of churches old 
and new, state and free, an appeal 
grounded on the nature of Him who 
is the Father of all, a cry to the 
heart, in the name of Him who is the 
Lord of the hearts of all 1 Indeed, if I 
might characterise the " Heavenly Hori- 
zons" in two words, I would say that 
the essential beauty of the book, as well 
as its distinctive characteristic, consists 
in its passionate humanity. So much 
broader, thank God, is the spirit of man 
than the systems in which it seeks to 
inclose itself, that the world is filled 
with such contradictions, whether in the 
writings or in the lives of men. Feel- 
ings perpetually overlap dogmas. The 
large heart and the narrow doctrine often 
quaintly meet in one. A man will 
damn you Sunday after Sunday from his 
pulpit, who will treat you as the best of 
friends when he comes down from it. 
And so Madame de Gasparin, professing 
only to address "the redeemed," has 
illustrated a truth which she ignores, by 
speaking to the hearts of all 

And now I need hardly point out how 
these books, written by the mistress of 
a Parisian household, are yet essentially 
Swiss-French books, how they illus- 
trate, though with a fervour and a poetry 
of style of which Switzerland has sup- 
plied no instances since Rousseau, 
that proud and vigorous individualism 
of the Swiss race. Here again, then, 
we may recognise the influence of that 
Swiss element in French thought on 
which I have dwelt. Western Switzer- 
land is indeed essentially married to 
France, as the mountain to the plain; 
bracing her with crisp airs, feeding her 
streams with snows. But the marriage, 
to be healthy and prolific, must be one 
not of violence and slavery, but of free 
love. There could be few greater moral 
curses for France than the trampling 
out of that nest of Protestant faith, free 
thought, self-reliant manhood, which lies 

now on her eastern border, in a fold 
of the great central mountain-chain of 

Nor would the mischief, I suspect, 
be less great materially than morally. 
Despotism shuts a country more and 
more up within itself. Freedom always 
overbrims in blessings. The trade and 
industry of free Switzerland have accu- 
mulated within her narrow limits a vast 
amount both of capital and of acquired 
skill, by which her neighbours, France 
especially, largely profit. Not only is 
her industrial ability such, that out of 
cotton bought at Liverpool, charged with 
all the cost of transit thence, by rail or 
river, to the very heart of the continent, 
she is able to manufacture certain fabrics 
which undersell our own in neighbour- 
ing markets ; but she actually supplies 
capital to the factories of Eastern France. 
Thus, it is well known that, thanks to 
commandite, Bale has created Mulhouse. 
The same superiority exists, as we pass 
into the sphere of handicrafts. Districts, 
which in France would send forth only 
workers in the coarser kinds of labour, 
send them forth in Switzerland in the 
finer ; a village which in France would 
breed stone-cutters or carpenters, trains 
in French Switzerland its watchmakers 
or confectioners ; who, if afterwards 
they go forth throughout all the world, 
yet above all take up their sojourn in 
France, and even if not, yet under their 
French names generally give France the 
credit of their success. No physical 
peculiarities of the country suffice to ex- 
plain these facts ; they are above all the 
fruits of freedom ; they must perish if 
that be rooted out. May Switzerland 
long retain her own ! May the powers 
of Europe, true to their long-pledged 
word, suffer no imperial ambition to in- 
vade or paralyze it ! May Switzerland 
be ever more true to herself, and strong 
in the consciousness of her rights, of 
her worth in the political fabric, as one 
of the very corner-stones of European 
peace, remember always that, as the 
French proverb says, God helps those 
who help themselves ! 

But helping herself, let her seek help 
from God. Let her learn that true 

The Fair at Ready. 


democracy does not consist in abuse of 
momiers, and needs other representatives 
than a James Fazy. True it is, that the 
God whom her pious men have chiefly 
shown to her, is not the one whom she 
blindly gropes for. Excessive religious 
individualism has too much obscured for 

her the divine breadth of the Church. 
What Switzerland needs, is to see the 
God of Israel, the God of the nation, 
behind the God of the single believer. If 
the crisis of her independence as many 
signs indicate is nigh, in that Name 
only will she stand, will she conquer. 



MY friend, John Penruddock, over in 
Ireland, with whom I spent a month 
last summer, made a deeper impression 
on me than I can telL For years I had 
not seen such a man. There was a 
reality and honest stuff in him, which, 
in living with him and watching his daily 
goings on, revealed itself hour by hour, 
quite new to me. The people I had 
been accustomed to meet, talk with, live 
with, were so different. The tendency 
of each of these was towards art in one 
form or other ; and there was a certain 
sadness somehow in the contemplation 
of them. They fought and strove bravely, 
but like the Old Guard at "Waterloo, it 
was brave fighting on a lost field. After 
years of toil there were irremediable 
defects in that man's picture ; fatal 
flaws in that man's book. In all their 
efforts were failure and repulse, apparent 
to some extent to themselves, plain 
enough to me, the passionless looker-on. 
That resolute, hopeless climbing of hea- 
ven of theirs, was, according to the 
mood, a thing to laugh at or a thing to 
weep over. With Penruddock, all was 
different. What he strove after he ac- 
complished. He had a cheerful mastery 
over circumstances. All things went 
well with him. His horses ploughed 
for him, his servants reaped for him, his 
mills ground for him successfully. The 
very winds and dews were to him helps 
and aids. Year after year his crops 
grew, yellowed, were cut down, and 
gathered into barns, and men fed 
thereupon; and year after year there 

lay an increased balance at his banker's. 
This continual, ever- victorious activity of 
his seemed strange to me. We usually 
think that poets, painters, and the like, 
are finer, more heroical than cultivators 
of the ground. But does the production 
of a questionable book really surpass in 
merit the production of a field of unques- 
tionable turnips 1 Perhaps, in the severe 
eyes of the gods, the production of a 
wooden porringer, watertight and fit for 
household uses, is of more account than 
the rearing of a tower of Babel, meant 
to reach to heaven. Alas ! that so many 
must work on these Babel towers ; can- 
not help toiling on them to the very 
death, though every stone is heaved into 
its place with weariness and mortal 
pain; though, when the life of the 
builder is wasted out on it, it is fit 
habitation for no creature, can shelter 
no one from rain or winter snow, tower- 
ing in the eyes of men a Folly (as the 
Scotch phrase it) after alL 

Penruddock had promised to take me 
to see the fair at Keady a fortnight 
before it came off; but was obliged on 
the day immediately preceding that 
event to leave his farm at Arran-More 
on matter of important business. It 
was a wretched day of rain, and I began 
to tremble for the morrow. After din- 
ner the storm abated, and the dull drip- 
ping afternoon set in. While a distem- 
pered sunset flushed the west, the heavy 
carts from the fields came rolling into 
the court-yard, the horses' fetlock deep 
in clay, and steaming like ovens. Then, 


The Fair at Keady. 

at the sound of the bell, the labourers 
came, wet, weary, sickles hanging over 
their arms, yet with spirits merry 
enough. These the capacious kitchen 
received, where they found supper spread. 
It grew dark earlier than usual, and 
more silent. The mill-wheel rushed 
louder in the swollen stream, and lights 
began to glimmer here and there in the 
dusty windows. Penruddock had not 
yet come. He was not due for a couple 
of hours. The tune began to hang 
heavily ; so, shipping to my bed, I solved 
every difficulty by falling asleep. 

The lowing of cattle, the bleating of 
sheep, the barking of dogs, and the loud 
voices of men in the court-yard beneath, 
awoke me shortly after dawn. In the 
silence that ensued I again fell asleep, 
and was roused at last by the clangour 
of the breakfast-bell. When I got up, 
the sun was streaming gloriously through 
the latticed window ; heaven was all the 
gayer and brighter now for yesterday's 
gloom and sulky tears, and the rooks 
were cawing and flapping cheerfully in 
the trees above. When I entered the 
breakfast-room, Penruddock was already 
there, nothing the worse for his jour- 
ney ; and the tea-urn was bubbling on 
the table. 

At the close of the meal, Tim brought 
the dog-cart to the door. Pen glanced 
at his watch. " We have hit the time 
exactly, and will arrive as soon as Mick 
and the cattle." There was an encou- 
raging chir-r-r, a flick of the whip, and 
in a trice we were across the bridge, 
and pegging along the highway at a 
great pace. 

After proceeding about a Jjule, we 
turned into a narrow path which gradu- 
ally led us up into a wild irregular 
country. Corn-fields, flax-tanks, and 
sunny pasture lands, dotted with sheep, 
were left behind as up hill we tugged, 
and reached at last a level stretch of 
purple moor and black peat bog. Some- 
times for a mile the ground was black 
with pyramids of peat ; at other times 
the road wriggled before us through a 
dark olive morass, enlivened here and 
there with patches of treacherous green ; 
the sound of our wheels startling into 

flight the shy and solitary birds native 
to the region. Ever and anon, too, when 
we gained sufficient elevation, we could 
see the great waves of the landscape 
rolling in clear morning light away to 
the horizon; each wave crested with 
farms and belts of woodland, and here 
and there wreaths of smoke rising up 
from hollows where towns and villages 
lay hid. After a while the road grew 
smoother, and afar the little town of 
Keady sparkled in the sun, backed by 
a range of smelting furnaces, the flames 
tamed by the sunlight, making a restless 
shimmer in the air, and blotting out 
everything beyond. Beneath us the high 
road was covered with sheep and cows, 
and vehicles of every description, push- 
ing forward to one point ; the hill paths 
also which led down to it were moving 
threads of life. On the brow of the 
hill, just before we began to descend, 
John pulled up for a moment. It was 
a pretty sight ! A few minutes' drive 
brought us into Keady, and such a busy 
scene I had never before witnessed. 
The narrow streets and open spaces were 
crowded with stalls, cattle, and people, 
and the press and confusion were so 
great that our passage to the inn where 
our machine was to be put up was mat- 
ter of considerable difficulty. Men, strip- 
ped to trousers and shirt, with red hair 
streaming in the wind,rushed backwards 
and forwards with horses, giving vent at 
the same time to the wildest vociferations, 
while clumps of sporting gentlemen, 
with straws in their mouths, were in- 
specting with critical eyes the points of 
the animals. Travelling auctioneers set 
up their little carts in the streets, and 
with astonishing effrontery and power 
of lung harangued the crowd on the 
worth and cheapness of the articles 
which they held in their hands. Beg- 
gars were very plentiful, disease and de- 
formity their stock-in-trade. Fragments 
of humanity crawled about upon crutches. 
Women stretched out shrunken arms. 
Blind men rolled sightless eyeballs, 
blessing the passenger when a copper 
tinkled in their iron jugs ; cursing yet 
more fervently when disappointed in 
their expectation. In one place a melan- 

The Fair at Ready. 


choly acrobat in dirty tights and faded 
tinsel, was performing evolutions with a 
crazy chair on a bit of ragged carpet ; 
he threw somersaults over it, he stood 
upon his head on it, he embraced it 
firmly and began spinning along the 
ground like a wheel, in which perform- 
ance man and chair seemed to lose their 
individuality and become one as it were ; 
and at the close of every feat he stood 
erect with that indescribable curve of 
the right hand which should always be 
followed by thunders of applause, the 
clown meanwhile rolling in ecstasies of 
admiration in the sawdust. Alas ! no 
applause followed the exertions of the 
artist. The tights were getting more 
threadbare and dingy. His hollow face 
was covered with perspiration, and there 
was but the sparsest sprinkling of half- 
pence. I threw him half-a-crown, but 
it rolled among the spectators' feet, and 
was lost in the dust. He groped about 
in search of it for some little time, and 
then came back to his carpet and his 
crazy chair. Poor fellow ! he looked as 
if he were used to that kind of thing. 
There were many pretty faces among the 
girls, and scores of them were walking 
about in holiday dresses. Rosy-faced 
lasses with black hair and blue eyes sha- 
dowed by long, dark eyelashes. How they 
laughed, and how sweetly the brogue 
melted from their lips in reply to the 
ardent blarney of their sweethearts ! At 
last we reached an open square, or cross 
as it would be called in Scotland, more 
crowded, if possible, than the narrow 
streets. Hordes of cattle bellowed here. 
Here were sheep from the large farms 
standing in clusters of fifties and hun- 
dreds ; there a clump of five or six with 
the widow in her clean cap sitting be- 
side them. Many an hour ago she and 
they started from the turf hut and the 
pasture beyond the hills. Heaven send 
her a ready sale and good prices ! In 
the centre of this open space great 
benches were erected, heaped with eggs, 
butter, cheeses, the proprietors standing 
behind anxiously awaiting the advances 
of customers. One section was crowded 
with sweetmeat stalls, much frequented 
by girls and their sweethearts. Many a 

rustic compliment there had for reply a 
quick glance or a scarlet cheek. Another 
, was devoted to poultry ; geese stood 
about in flocks, bunches of hens were 
scattered on the ground, their legs tied 
together ; and turkeys, inclosed in wicker 
baskets, surveyed the scene with quick 
eyes, their wattles all the while burning 
with indignation. On reaching the inn, 
which displayed for ensign a swan with 
two heads afloat on an azure stream, we 
ordered dinner at three o'clock, and 
thereafter started on foot to where Pen- 
ruddock's stock was stationed. It was 
no easy matter to force a path ; cows 
and sheep were always getting in the 
way. Now and then an escaped hen 
would come clucking and flapping among 
our feet; and once a huge bull, with 
horns levelled to the charge, came dash- 
ing down the street, scattering every- 
thing before him. Finally, we reached 
the spot where Mick and his dogs were 
keeping watch over the cows and sheep. 

" Got here all safe, Mick, I see." 

" All safe, sir, not a quarter o' an hour 

" Well, Burdett, I have opened my 
shop. We'll see how we get on." 

By this time the dealers had gathered 
about, and were closely examining the 
sheep, and holding whispered consulta- 
tions. At length, an excited-looking man 
camerunningforward ; plunging his hand 
into his breeches pocket, he produced 
therefrom half-a-crown, which he slapped 
into Penruddock's hand, at the same 
time crying out " Ten-and-six a head." 
" Fifteen," said John, returning the 
coin. "Twelve shillings," said the man, 
bringing down the coin with tremendous 
energy ; " an' may I niver stir if I'll 
give another farthin' for the best sheep 
in Keady." " Fifteen," said John, 
flinging the half-crown on the ground ; 
" and I don't care whether you stir again 
or not" By this time a crowd had 
gathered about, and the chorus began. 
" There isn't a dacenter man than Mr. 
Penruddock in the market. I've known 
him iver since he came to the counthry." 
" Shure an' he is," began another ; " he's 
a jintleman every inch. He always 
gives to the poor man a bit o' baccy, or 


The Fair at Ready. 

a glass. Ach, Mr. Loney, he's not the 
one to ax you too high a price. Shure, 
Mr. Penruddock, you'll come down a 
sixpence jist to make a bargain." " Is't 
Mr. Loney thafs goin' to buy?" cried a 
lame man from the opposite side, and in 
the opposite interest. " There isn't sich 
a dealer in county Monaghan as Mr. 
Loney. Of coorse you'll come down some- 
thing, Mr. Penruddock." " He's a rich 
one, too, is Mr. Loney," said the lame 
man, sidling up to John, and winking in 
a knowing manner, " an' a power o' notes 
he has in his pocket-book." Mr. Loney, 
who had been whispering with his 
group a little apart, "and who had again 
made an inspection of the stock, re- 
turned the second time to the charge. 
" Twelve-an'-six," cried he, and again 
the half-crown was slapped into Pen- 
ruddock's palm. " Twelve-an'-six, an' 
not another farthin' to save my sowL" 
"Fifteen," said John, returning the 
half-crown with equal emphasis ; " you 
know my price, and if you won't take 
it you can let it stand." The dealer 
disappeared in huge wrath, and the 
chorus broke out in praises of both. By 
this time Mr. Loney was again among 
the sheep ; it was plain his heart was 
set upon the purchase. Every now and 
then he caught one, got it between his 
legs, examined the markings on its face, 
and tested the depth and quality of its 
wool. He appeared for the third time, 
while the lame man and the leader of 
the opposing chorus seemed coming to 
blows, so zealous were they in the 
praises of their respective heroes. " Four- 
teen," said Mr. Loney, again producing 
the half-crown, spitting into his hand 
at the same time, as much as to say, he 
would do the business now. "Four- 
teen," he cried, crushing the half-crown 
into Penruddock's hand, and holding it 
there. " Fourteen, an' divil a rap more 
I'll give." "Fourteen," said John, as 
if considering, then throwing back the 
coin, " Fourteen-and-six, and let it be 
a bargain." 

" Didn't I say," quoth John's chorus- 
leader, looking round him with an air 
of triumph, " didn't I say that Mr. Pen- 
ruddock's a jintleman ? Ye see how he 

drops the sixpence. I niver saw him 
do a mane thing yet. Ach, he's the 
jintleman ivery inch, an' that's saying 
a dale, consideriii' his size." 

" Fourteen-an'-six be it then," said 
the dealer, bringing down the coin for 
the last time. "An 5 if I take the lot 
you'll give me two pounds in f my- 

" Well, Loney, I don't care, although 
I do," said Penruddock, pocketing the 
coin at last. A roll of notes was pro- 
duced, the sum counted out, and the 
bargain concluded. The next moment 
Loney was among the sheep, scoring 
some mark or other on their backs with 
a piece of red chalk. Penruddock scat- 
tered what spare coppers he possessed 
among the bystanders, and away they 
went to sing the praises of the next 

Pen turned to me, laughing. " This 
is a nice occupation for a gentleman of 
respectable birth and liberal education, 
is it not?" 

" Odd. It is amusing to watch the 
process by which your sheep are con- 
verted into bank-notes. Does your 
friend, Mr. Loney, buy the animals for 

" Oh, dear no. We must have middle- 
men of one kind or another in this 
country. Loney is commissioned to pur- 
chase, and is allowed so much on the 

By this time a young handsome fel- 
low pushed his horse through the crowd 
and approached us. " Good morning," 
cried he to Penruddock. "Any busi- 
ness doing?" 

" I have just sold my sheep." 

"Good price?" 

" Fair. Fourteen-and-six." 

"Ah, not so bad. These cattle, I 
suppose, are yours ? We must try if we 
can't come to a bargain about them." 
Dismounting, he gave his horse in keep- 
ing to a lad, and he and John went off 
to inspect the stock. 

Business was proceeding briskly on 
all sides. There was great higgling as 
to prices, and shillings and half-crowns 
were tossed in a wonderful manner from 
palm to palm. Apparently, no trans- 

The Fair at Keady. 


action could be transacted without that 
ceremony, whatever it might mean. 
Idlers were everywhere celebrating the 
merits and "dacency" of the various 
buyers and sellers. Huge greasy leather 
pocket-books of undoubted antiquity, 
were to be seen in many a hand, and 
rolls of bank-notes were deftly changing 
owners. The ground, too, was begin- 
ning to clear, and purchasers were 
driving off their cattle. Many of the 
dealers who had disposed of stock were 
taking their ease in the inns. You 
could see them looking out of the open 
windows ; and, occasionally, a man 
whose potations had been early and ex- 
cessive went whooping through the 
crowd. In a short time John returned 
with his friend. 

" Captain Broster/' said John, pre- 
senting him, " has promised to dine 
with us at three. Sharp at the hour, 
mind, for we wish to leave early." 

" I'll be punctual as clockwork," said 
the captain, turning, to look after his 

We strolled up and down till three 
o'clock, and then bent our steps to the 
inn, where we found Broster waiting. 
In honour to his guests the landlord 
himself brought in dinner, and waited 
with great diligence. When the table 
was cleared we had punch and cigars, 
and sat chatting at the open window. 
The space in front was tolerably clear of 
cattle now, but dealers were hovering 
about, standing in clumps, or prome- 
nading in parties of twos and threes. 
But at this point a new element had 
entered into the ssene. It was dinner 
hour, and many of the forgemen from 
the furnaces above had come down to 
see what was going on. Huge, hulk- 
ing, swarthy-featured fellows they were. 
Welshmen, chiefly, as I was afterwards 
told ; who, confident in their strength, 
were at no pains .to conceal their 
contempt for the natives. They, too, 
mingled in the crowd, but the greater 
number leaned lazily against the houses, 
smoking their short pipes and indulging 
in the dangerous luxury of " chaffing " 
the farmers. Many a rude wit-combat 
was going on, accompanied by roars of 

laughter, snatches of which . we occa- 
sionally heard. Broster had been in 
the Crimea, was wounded at Alma, 
recovered, went through all the work 
and privation of the first winter of the 
siege, got knocked up, came home on 
sick leave, and having had enough of it, 
as he frankly confessed, took the oppor- 
tunity on his father's death, which 
happened then, to sell out and settle 
as a farmer on a small property to 
which he fell heir. He chatted about 
the events of the war in an easy, familiar 
way, quietly, as if the whole affair had 
been a game at football; and when 
courage, strength, and splendid pros- 
pects were changed by unseen bullet, 
or grim bayonet stab, into a rude grave 
on the bleak plateau, the thing was 
mentioned as a mere matter of course ! 
Sometimes a comrade's fate met with 
an expression of soldierly regret, slight 
and indifferent enough, yet with a cer- 
tain pathos which no high-flown oration 
could reach. For the indifferent tone 
seemed to acquiesce in destiny, to con- 
sider that disappointment had been too 
common in the life of every man during 
the last six thousand years to warrant 
any raving or passionate surprise at this 
time of day ; and that in any case our 
ordinary pulse and breath time our 
march to the grave ; passion beats the 
double-quick, and when it is all over, 
there is little need for outcry and. the 
shedding of tears over the eternal rest. 
In the midst of his talk, voices rose in 
one of the apartments below : the noise 
became altercation, and immediately 
a kind of struggling or dragging was 
heard in the flagged passage, and then 
a tipsy forgeman was unceremoniously 
shot out into the square ; and the inn 
door closed with an angry bang. The 
individual seemed to take the indignity 
in very good part ; along he staggered, 
his hands in his pockets, heedless of the 
satirical gibes and remarks of his com- 
panions, who were smoking beneath our 
windows. Looking out, we could see 
that his eyes were closed, as if he 
scorned the outer world, possessing one 
so much more satisfactory within himself. 
As he went he began to sing from sheer 


The Fair at Keady. 

excess of happiness ; the following 
stanza coming distinctly to our ears. 

"When I was a chicken as "big as a hen, 
My mother 'ot me an' I 'ot her agen ; 
My father came for to see the r-r-rrow r 
So I lifted my fist an I 'ot him a clow." 

"I hope that fellow won't come to 
grief," said Broster, as the forgeman 
lurched through a group of countrymen 
intent on a bargain, and passed on 
without notice or apology, his eyes 
closed, and singing as before, 

"Ses my mother, ses she, there's a 
peeler at hand." 

"By Jove, he's down at last, and 
there'll be the devil to pay !" We 
looked out : the forgeman was prone in 
the dust, singing, and apparently un- 
conscious that he had changed his posi- 
tion. A party of farmers were standing 
around laughing ; one of them had 
put out his foot and tripped the forge- 
man as he passed. The next moment, 
a bare-armed, black-browed hammer- 
smith stood out from the wall, and, 
without so much as taking' the pipe 
from his mouth, felled the dealer at 
a blow, and then looked at his com- 
panions as if wishing to be informed if 
he could do anything in the same way 
for them. The blow was a match 
dropped in a powder magazine. Alelu ! 
to the combat. There were shouts and 
yells. Insult had been rankling long 
in the breasts of both parties. Old 
scores had to be paid off". From every 
quarter, out of the inns, leaving potheen 
and ale, down the streets from among 
the cattle, the dealers came rushing to 
the fray. The forgemen mustered with 
alacrity, as if battle were the breath 
of their nostrils. In a few seconds, 
the square was the scene of a general 
melee. The dealers fought with their 
short heavy sticks ; the forgemen had 
but the weapons nature gave, but their 
arms were sinewed with iron, and every 
blow told like a hammer. These last 
were overpowered for a while, but the 
alarm had already spread to the furnaces 
above, and parties of twos and threes 

came at a run, and flung themselves in 
to the assistance of their companions. 
Just at this moment, a couple of con- 
stables pressed forward into the mad 
yelling crowd. A hammersmith came 
behind one, and seizing his arms, held 
him, despite his struggles, firmly as in 
a vice. The other was knocked over 
and trampled under foot. " Good 
heavens, murder will be done," cried 
Broster, Lifting his heavy whip from 
the table. " We must try and put an 
end to this disgraceful scene. Will you 
join me?" "With heart and soul," 
said Penruddock, " and there is no time 
to be lost. Come along, Burdett." At 
the foot of the stair we found the land- 
lord shaking in every limb. He had 
locked the door, and was standing in 
the passage with the key in his hand. 
" McQueen, we want out ; open the 

"Shure, jintlemen, you'r not goin' 
just now. You'll be torn to paces if 
you go." 

" If you won't open the door give me 
the key, and I'll open it myself." 

The landlord passively yielded : 
Broster unlocked the door, and flung 
the key down on the flagged passage. 
" Now, my lads," cried he to half a 
dozen countrymen who were hanging-on 
spectators on the skirts of the combat, 
and at the same time twisting his whip 
lash tightly around his right hand till 
the heavily leaded head became a for- 
midable we.apon, a blow from which 
would be effective on any skull of 
ordinary susceptibility ; " Now my lads, 
we are resolved to put an end to this, 
will you assist us?" The captain's 
family had been long resident in the 
county, he was himself personal!}' 
known to all of them, and a cheerful 
"ay, ay," was the response. "Pen- 
ruddock, separate them when you can, 
knock them over when you can't, 
Welshman or Irishman, its quite the 
same." So saying, in we drove. Broster 
clove a way for himself, distributing 
his blows with great impartiality, and 
knocking over the combatants like nine- 
pins. We soon reached the middle of 
the square, where the fight was hottest. 

The Fair at Ready. 


The captain was swept away in an eddy 
for a moment, and right in front of 
Penruddock and myself two men were 
grappling on the ground. As they rolled 
over, we saw that one was the hammer- 
smith who had caused the whole affray. 
We flung ourselves upon them, and 
dragged them up. The dealer with 
whom I was more particularly engaged 
had got the worst of it, and plainly 
wasn't sorry to be released from the 
clutches of his antagonist. With his 
foe it was different. His slow sullen 
blood was fairly in a blaze, and when 
John pushed him aside, he dashed at 
him and struck him a severe blow on 
the face. In a twinkling, Penruddock's 
coat was off, while the faintest stream of 
blood trickled from his upper lip. 
" Well, my man," said he, as he stood 
up ready for action, " if that's the game 
you mean to play at, I hope to give you 
a bellyful before I've done." " Seize that 
man, knock him over," said Broster ; 
"you're surely not going to fight him, 
Penruddock, it's sheer madness ; knock 
him over." " I tell you what it is," 
said Penruddock, turning savagely, " you 
sha'n't deprive me of the luxury of giv- 
ing this fellow a sound hiding." Broster 
shrugged his shoulders, as if giving up 
the case. By this time the cry arose, 
" Black Jem's goin' to fight the gentle- 
man," and a wide enough ring was 
formed. Many who were prosecuting 
small combats of their own desisted, 
that they might behold this greater one. 
Broster stood beside John. "He's an 
ugly mass of strength," whispered he, 
"and will hug you like a bear; keep 
him well off, and remain cool for Heaven's 
sake." "Ready?" said John, stepping 
forward. " As a lark i' the mornin'," 
growled Jem, as he took up his ground. 
The men were very wary, Jem retreat- 
ing round and round, John advancing. 
Now and then one or other darted out a 
blow, but it was generally stopped, and 
no harm done. At last the blows went 
home ; the blood began to rise. The 
men drew closer, and struck with greater 
rapidity. They are at it at last, hammer 
and tongs. No shirking or flinching 
now. Jem's was flowing. He was 
No. 9. VOL. n. 

evidently getting severely punished. He 
couldn't last long at that rate. He 
fought desperately for a close, when a 
blinding blow full in the face brought 
him to the earth. He got up again like 
a madman, the whole bull-dog nature of 
him possessed and mastered by fierce, 
brutal rage. He cursed and struggled 
in the arms of his supporters to get at his 
enemy, but by main force they held him 
back till he recovered himself. " He'll 
be worked off in another round," I heard 
Broster whisper in my ear. Ah ! here 
they come ! I glanced at John for a 
moment as he stood with his eye on his 
foe. There was that in his face that 
boded no good. The features had har- 
dened into iron somehow ; the pitiless 
mouth was clenched, the eye cruel. A 
hitherto unknown part of his nature re- 
vealed itself to me as he stood there. 
Perhaps unknown to himself. God help 
us, what strangers we are to ourselves ! 
In every man's nature there is an interior 
unexplored as that of Africa, -and over 
that region what wild beasts may roam ! 
But they are at it '. again ; Jem still 
fights for a close, and every tune his 
rush is stopped by a damaging blow. 
They are telling rapidly ; his countenance, 
by no means charming at the best, is 
rapidly transforming. Look at that 
hideously gashed lip ! But he has 
dodged Penruddock's left this time, 
and clutched, him in his brawny arms. 
Now comes the tug of war, skill pitted 
against skill, strength against strength. 
They breathe for a little in one an- 
other's grip, as if summoning every 
energy. They are at it now, broad chest 
to chest. Now they seem motionless, 
but by the quiver of their frames you 
can guess the terrific strain going 
on. Now one has the better, now 
the other, as they twine round each 
other, lithe and supple as serpents. 
Penruddock yields ! No ! That's a 
bad dodge of Jem's. By Jove he loses 
his grip. All is over with him. John's 
brow grows dark; the veins start out 
on it ; and the next moment Black 
Jem, the hero of fifty fights, slung over 
his shoulder, falls heavily to the ground. 
At his fall a cheer rose from the 

186 On the Social and Economical Influence of the New Gold. 

dealers. " You blacksmith fellows had 
better make off," cried Broster ; " your 
man has got the thrashing he deserves, 
and you can carry him home with you. 
I am resolved to put a stop to these 
disturbances there have been too many 
of late." The furnace men hung for a 
moment irresolute, seemingly half in- 
clined to renew the combat, but a for- 
midable array of cattle-dealers pressed 
forward and turned the scale. They 
decided on a retreat. Black Jem, who 
had now come to himself, was lifted up, 
and, supported by two men, retired 
toward the works and dwellings on the 
upper grounds, accompanied by his 
companions, who muttered many a surly 
oath and vow of future vengeance. 

When we got back to the inn, John 
was very anxious about his face. He 
washed, and carefully perused his fea- 
tures in the little looking-glass. Luckily, 
with the exception of the upper lip 
slightly cut by Jem's first blow, no 
mark of "the combat presented itself; 
at this happy result of his investigations 
he expressed great satisfaction Broster 
laughing the meanwhile, and telling 

him that he was as careful of his face 
as a young lady. 

The captain came down to see us off. 
The fair was over now, and the little 
streets were almost deserted. The 
dealers apprehensive of another de- 
scent from the furnaces had hurried 
off as soon as their transactions could 
in any way permit. Groups of villagers, 
however, were standing about the doors 
discussing the event of the day ; and 
when Penruddock appeared he became, 
for a quarter of an hour, an object of 
public interest for the first time in his 
life, and so far as he has yet lived, for 
the last ; an honour to which he did 
not seem to attach any particular value. 

We shook hands with the captain ; 
then, at a touch of the whip, the 
horse started at a gallant pace, scatter- 
ing a brood of ducks in all directions ; 
and in a few minutes, Keady, with its 
white-washed houses and dark row of 
furnaces, tipped with tongues of flame, 
pale and shrunken yet in the lustre of 
the afternoon, but which would rush out 
wild and lurid when the evening fell, 
lay a rapidly dwindling speck behind. 



. . . * - - - \ \ 


IT is very important to arrive at some 
definite opinion on a subject which has 
been so much confused. 

I wish to direct attention to three dis- 
tinct series of effects which have been 
produced by the new gold. 

Firstly. The substance which is by 
so many nations adopted as a medium 
of exchange has been augmented in 

Secondly. The new gold has influ- 
enced the wealth and the social condi- 
tion of the countries in which it has 
been discovered. 

Thirdly. Great Britain has been 
affected by this change in the social and 
material condition of one of her most 
important colonies. 

When it was found in 1851 that Aus- 
tralia and California would each year 
supply nearly 30,000, OOOZ. of gold, or, 
in other words, at least four times as 
much as all other gold mines had annu- 
ally yielded before, it was supposed that 
gold would rapidly decline in value to 
the extent of at least twenty-five per cent. 
The best authorities now agree that this 
decline has not as yet occurred. I will, 
in the first place, state the reasons 
which justify this supposition, and then 
explain in what manner the increased 
gold has been absorbed, and its value 
been maintained. An inductive proof 
of a change in the value of gold requires 
data which cannot be obtained, for a 
comparison of general prices during the 

On the Social and Economical Influence of the New Gold. 187 

last ten years will not afford a sufficient 
proof. Thus the average price of wheat 
is lower now than then. The value of 
gold compared with wheat has risen ; 
but how erroneous would it be thence 
to conclude that its general value had 
risen ! Wheat has declined in price 
because it can be imported cheaply from 
other countries. On the other hand, the 
price of meat and dairy produce has of 
late risen considerably. This rise in 
price we know is partly due to the in- 
creasing wants of an advancing popu- 
lation, and especially to the increased 
consumption of a more numerous and 
better paid labouring class ; but although 
we know this, we cannot assert that the 
rise in the price of such produce has not 
been augmented by a fall in the general 
value of gold. Manifestly such com- 
parisons avail nothing. The price of 
silver will afford the most important 
evidence. Silver and gold have been 
adopted as the general media of ex- 
change because they are liable to little 
change in their value. The value of 
these metals, like agricultural produce, 
is determined by the cost of obtaining 
them under the most unfavourable cir- 
cumstances. Therefore their value is not 
altered, unless the current rate of profit in 
a country falls, and renders it profitable 
to work worse mines than those already 
worked; or, on the other hand, rises, 
and renders it no longer profitable to 
work these worse mines. Where com- 
modities are employed in industrial 
occupations, the demand is variable ; 
their value depends upon the demand ; 
and this value constantly tends to obtain 
that position of stable equilibrium when 
the supply equals the demand. But the 
quantity of gold and silver which is 
used for industrial purposes is compara- 
tively very insignificant ; and when a 
substance is used merely as a medium of 
exchange, the demand is always exactly 
equal to the supply ; the aggregate 
supply determines the value, and the 
value in a cross way regulates the 
supply, because the supply must give 
such a value as will cause the current 
rate of profit to be obtained in the worst 
mines. If, therefore, within the last ten 

years no silver mines of exceptional 
richness have been discovered, and the 
worse mines which were then worked are 
worked now, it affords strong evidence 
that nothing has occurred to affect the 
value of silver. If, therefore, gold 
has declined in value twenty-five per 
cent, silver estimated in gold would 
have increased twenty-five per cent, in 
price. But it has not increased five per 
cent. This, I believe, affords important 
evidence that the general value of gold 
has not yet declined. For some years 
up to 1840 our exports and imports had 
steadily increased. About that time the 
progress seemed to have ceased, for from 
1840 to 1846 our exports remained at the 
stationary point of about 50,000,000^. 
per annum. The fettered energy of the 
country seemed to have achieved its 
utmost. Free trade and the repeal of 
the navigation laws unloosed these 
fetters, and then the country started on a 
career of the most extraordinary progress. 
Our exports in nine years advanced from 
50,000,0002. to 115, 000,0002. In 1847, 
475,000,000 Ibs. of cotton were im- 
ported; in 1856 more than 1,000,000,000 
Ibs. This increased commerce stimu- 
lates the accumulation of capital ; the 
wage-fund of the country is augmented, 
and wages, especially in the manufac- 
turing districts, obtain a very decided 
rise. Free trade also cheapens many of 
the prime necessaries of life, and much 
more can therefore be spared for luxu- 
ries. No luxury is more prized by the 
poor than tea ; and hence we find that 
only 50,000,000 Ibs. of tea were im- 
ported in 1850, but that 86,000,000 Ibs. 
were imported in 1856. In Europe, 
during the last few years, there has been 
a great failure of the silk crop. China 
has been resorted to ; and thus, while 
only 1,700,000 Ibs. of silk were imported 
in 1850, more than 4,000,000 Ibs. were 
imported in each of the years 1,854, 
1855. The plodding industry of the 
Chinese enables them to supply this in- 
creased tea and silk; but, surrounded 
with all the prejudices which have re- 
sulted from an isolation of two thousand 
years, we can induce them to take no use- 
ful commodities in return. They will be 

o 2 

188 On the Social and Economical Influence of the New Gold. 

paid in silver, and we are thus obliged 
to adjust the balance of trade by a large 
annual exportation of silver. Nothing 
can be more anomalous than our present 
commercial relations with China. The 
figures which have just been quoted 
show that the present commercial pro- 
gress of Great Britain is perhaps most 
strikingly exhibited by the advancing 
demand for Chinese products. Our 
imports from that country are year by 
year increasing in quantity and in value, 
and yet our exports to that country 
diminish rather than increase. About 
1844 the value of our exports averaged 
2,000,OOOJ Of late years they have 
scarcely averaged 1,000,000?., and, small 
as is our export trade to China, it is 
large in comparison with that of other 
countries. Thus the annual exports of 
the United States to China do not ex- 
ceed 300,000^., and the exports which 
are sent from the Continent are still 
more insignificant. Great Britain con- 
sequently becomes, to a great extent, 
the emporium of Eastern produce. The 
products of the East are brought to 
England, and then again are distributed 
not only over the continent of Europe, 
but even over Canada and the United 
States ; and the settlement of the 
balances of the Indian and Chinese 
trade is made through England for the 
civilized world. Until 1850 the adjust- 
ment of this commerce required the 
export of only a small amount of silver 
'to the East ; but a drain then com- 
menced, which has advanced with steady 
rapidity, and in 1856 this country alone 
exported to the East the enormous sum 
of 14,500,OOOZ. of silver. The silver 
coinage of France has, to a great extent, 
supplied this silver. 45,000,000^. have 
been thus abstracted from her silver 
coinage in six years, from 1852 1858. 
Gold has supplied its place. The ab- 
sorption of so much gold in this way 
has induced M. Chevalier, in his work 
" On the probable Fall in the Value of 
Gold," so admirably translated by Mr. 
Cobden, to describe France as a para- 
chute, which has retarded the fall in the 
value of gold. France has supplied so 
much silver 

Firstly. Because of the large amount 
of silver coinage she formerly possessed ; 

Secondly. Because, unlike us, she has 
a double standard. Any slight variation 
in the fixed relative values of these two 
metals will induce all payments to be 
made in one of these metals alone. 
Every extension of credit enables a cer- 
tain amount of the circulating medium 
to be dispensed with ; and it is probable 
that our vastly increased commerce and 
trade has required little, if any greater 
quantity of the circulating medium for 
all those transactions which may be 
described as wholesale ; but, as I have 
before observed, a great increase in the 
national capital must have accompanied 
this commercial progress. The wage- 
fund is a component part of this capital 
Wages are almost always paid in coin. 
This points to another way in which 
much of the new gold has been ab- 
sorbed. The possibility of accounting 
for the absorption of the new supplies 
of gold, confirms the opinion that its 
value has not yet declined. But the 
fact that there has been no reduction, 
proves that gold would have greatly 
risen in value had not these supplies 
been forthcoming. The rise, too, would 
have been sudden, and therefore most 
serious. The conditions of every rnonied 
contract would be altered, the national 
debt would be a more severe burden, 
and the extension of our commerce with 
the East would meet with the most 
difficult obstacle. 

"When feudal Europe ripened into 
commercial Europe, the gold of America 
was discovered ; and now that- free trade 
has inaugurated a new social and com- 
mercial era, the gold of Australia and 
California is ready at hand to aid the 

M. Chevalier asserts that henceforth 
the value of gold will rapidly decline at 
least fifty per cent. I regard this as a much 
too confident prophecy. The wage-fund 
of most countries is increasing, in some 
cases most rapidly. This will absorb a 
great deal of gold. Our commerce with 
the East is so anomalous, that prophecies 
seem to me to be ' useless. Every year 

On the Social and Economical Influence of the New Gold. 189 

there is a constantly greater quantity of 
Eastern produce required, and therefore 
this increased commerce will very soon 
annually absorb, instead of 14,000,000^. 
of specie, 20,000,000^, unless some great 
change in the habits of the Chinese in- 
duces them to consume more European 
commodities. On such a point who will 
hazard a prediction 1 Thus, in a few 
years, the East will absorb all the silver 
of the West. Shall we then be able to 
induce the Chinese to take gold as 
readily as they do now silver ? There 
is another consideration which seems to 
me to be not sufficiently noticed. A 
change in the value of gold always gene- 
rates a counteracting force, whose ten- 
dency is to restore the metal to its former 
value. Suppose the supplies of gold con- 
tinue to be the same as they are now, 
and that after a certain time gold de- 
clines in value. Gold-digging is not I 
may say, cannot be permanently more 
profitable than other employments. Di- 
rectly a decline in the value of gold 
takes place, gold-digging will to many 
become less profitable than other labour. 
They will therefore cease to dig ; this 
will diminish the aggregate supply of 
gold, and this diminution will tend to 
restore its value. I will now proceed 
to explain in what way the gold dis- 
coveries have assisted the advance of 
Australia. Production has three requi- 
sites : 

Firstly. Appropriate natural agents. 

Secondly. Labour to develop the re- 
sources of nature. 

Thirdly. This labour must be sus- 
tained by the results of previous labour, 
or in other words, by capital. 

Long previous to 1848 the great 
natural resources of Australia were 
known, vast tracts of fertile land had 
been explored, and her climate had 
been pronounced healthy. There was an 
overplus of labour in our own country, 
and much additional capital would have 
been at once accumulated had an eligible 
investment presented itself. Little 
labour and capital were, however, ap- 
plied in Australia, and her advance w,s 
slow. We know the discovery of gold 
changed all this ; let us then seek the 

secret of the change. Previous to the 
gold discoveries, the chief field for the 
investment of capital was agriculture. 
In a young country farming operations 
meet with many obstacles. The stock 
and implements are expensive, no steady 
supply of labour can be ensured; and 
without the investment of a great deal 
of capital in roads, and other such works, 
produce can with difficulty be brought to 
market ; and when it is brought, the de- 
mand is uncertain. The same consider- 
ations apply to manufactures, and also 
to general mining operations ; for lead, 
copper, and iron mines require most ex- 
pensive machinery, and a large co-opera- 
tion of labour. This explains the usual 
slow progress of colonies, even when 
they offer the greatest industrial advan- 
tages. But as soon as it was heard that 
gold was spread over a large breadth 
of the Australian continent, thousands 
flocked to share the spoil. They only 
took the simplest tools ; they needed no 
capital, but just sufficient food to sup- 
port them while labouring ; and each 
one felt that he could work indepen- 
dently, and risk nothing more than his 
labour and his passage-money. Aus- 
tralia, having thus suddenly obtained an 
abundance of manual labour, possessed 
two of the requisites of production ; the 
third, capital, was quickly supplied to 
her. The savings of the gold-diggers 
formed a large capital, and English 
capital now flowed in even too broad a 
stream to supply the wants of this 
labouring population. Australia for a 
time suffered much inconvenience, be- 
cause gold-digging absorbed much of 
the labour which had been previously 
applied to other employments ; not that 
more was earned in this pursuit than in 
others, but there is a magic spell in 
the name of gold. Gold-digging has 
the excitement of a lottery, and the 
chances of a lottery are always esti- 
mated at more than their true value. 
After a time, other pursuits absorbed a 
due proportion of labour, and thus Aus- 
tralia possessed every attribute of indus- 
trial success, and her future prosperity 
was established. 

About 1848, England was suffering 

190 On the Social and Economical Influence of the New Gold. 

from those ills which political economy 
attributes to over population. Wages 
were becoming lower, and increasing 
population necessarily made food more 
expensive. Ireland had famine, and 
we had most deplorable distress. I 
have mentioned that the discovery of 
gold acted more powerfully than any 
other circumstance to induce a large 
emigration from Great Britain. Any 
decrease in the number of those who 
seek employment must cause a rise of 
wages, but emigration from a country 
like our own effects even a more im- 
portant advantage. I have before ob- 
served that the price of agricultural 
produce at any time must be such as 
will return the ordinary rate of profit to 
the worst land in cultivation. If, there- 
fore, the wants of an advancing popu- 
lation cause more land to be brought 
into cultivation, the food which is thus 
raised involves a greater expenditure 
of labour and capital than that which 
was before produced, and thus as popu- 
lation advances food becomes dearer. 
In a thickly peopled country there are 
two obstacles to the material prosperity 
of the poor : 

Firstly. The number of those com- 
peting for employment reduces wages. 

Secondly. Food rises in value as it 
becomes necessary to strain the resources 
of the fertile land. 

Emigration, therefore, has increased 
not only the monied wages, but the real 
wages of our labourers. In some of 
our colonies, such as Canada, so little of 
the fertile land has been cultivated, 
that for some time the greater the im- 
migration is to those parts, the more 
abundant will be the supply of cheap 
food which will be exported to our own 
country. Emigration therefore, as it 
were, adds a tract of fertile land to our 
own soil. Again, labour is remunerated 
from capital. The amount saved, or in 
other words, the capital which is ac- 
cumulated, is regulated by the returns 
which this capital will obtain. If popu- 
lation is stationary, and capital increases, 
wages will rise and profits will fall ; 
if, on the other hand, capital increases, 
the rate of profit will fall. Can we 

affirm anything with certainty about the 
tendency of profits, when capital and 
population both increase 1 Any aug- 
mentation in the numbers of the 
labourers must exercise an influence to 
reduce wages, and therefore to raise pro- 
fits. But there is another consideration. 
In a thickly peopled country like Great 
Britain, the returns of the Registrar- 
General plainly indicate that the increase 
of population amongst the labouring class 
is determined by the expense of living, 
for the number of marriages invariably 
increases or decreases as food is cheap 
or dear. Such being the case, there is 
always a portion of the labouring class 
whose wages are very little more than 
sufficient to provide them with the 
necessaries of life. Such wages I will 
describe as minimum wages. Since we 
have seen that an increasing popula- 
tion must always have a tendency to 
make food dearer, these minimum wages 
must, from this cause, have a constant 
tendency to rise. 

This acts as a counteracting force to 
reduce profits. We can now attribute 
another important influence to emigra- 
tion. It raises wages by reducing the 
number of the labouring class ; but 
since, as I have said, it adds a tract of 
fertile land to our own soil, it cheapens 
food, and since cheap food prevents a 
reduction in the rate of profit, there 
will be a greater inducement to save. 
The capital of the country will from 
this cause become augmented, and there 
will be therefore a larger fund to be 
distributed amongst the wage-receiving 
population. When emigration is thus 
considered, its vast social and economical 
importance can be understood. Mr. J. 
S. Mill, who, perhaps more than any 
other person, has systematically thought 
upon the means to ameliorate the con- 
dition of the poor, emphatically insists, 
that it is necessary to make a great 
alteration in the condition of, at least, 
one generation to lift one generation, 
as it were, into a different state of 
material comfort. 

He attributes little good to slight 
improvements in the material prosperity 
of the poor, because, unless accompanied 

The Volunteer's Catechism, with a Few Words on Butts. 


with a change in their social habits, the 
advantage is sure, as it were, to create 
its own destruction, by encouraging an 
increase of population. It seems that 
there can be no agency so powerful as 
emigration to effect a decided change in 
the material condition of the poor. I 
therefore regard the discovery of gold 

to be of the utmost social value to 
England, for it has been so potent an 
agent to induce emigration, that it has 
caused Australia in ten years to advance 
from a settlement and become a nation, 
with all the industrial appliances of the 
oldest and most thriving commercial 





WHY are we volunteering? What's the 
meaning of it all 1 What is it that is 
making noblemen, and men of fortune, 
and lawyers, and merchants, and trades- 
men, and clerks, and artisans, give up 
their usual pursuits, sacrifice their 
leisure hours (often few enough, Heaven 
knows), and incur trouble, and expense, 
and drudgery, that they may acquire the 
manual and platoon exercises, be able to 
hit a target at 200 yards, and know how 
to form open column, and to wheel into 

It is high time for us all to be asking 
ourselves seriously, what we do mean? 
whether we have any meaning at all in 
the matter? For, either the nation is 
drifting into a gigantic piece of tom- 
foolery, of uniform- wearing, and swash- 
bucklerism, and playing at soldiers, 
which will last for a summer or two, and 
then be quietly extinguished, with the 
approval of all rational men, never to be 
revived again in our day; or she is 
rousing herself to undertake seriously 
one of the hardest tasks which she can 
set herself, and yet one which, success- 
fully accomplished, will yield results, 
the worth whereof no living English- 
man can estimate. 

On the surface of our volunteering 
there are signs which might lead a 
casual observer to the tom-fpolery belief. 
We hear of absurd persons going about, 
arrayed in sashes or sidearms to which 

they have no right ; the Government 
has even had, at the request of the 
commanders of corps, to issue notices 
and prohibitions against such. In one 
quarter, distressed and distressing volun- 
teers are whining in the cheap papers 
that the Guards don't salute them ; an- 
other set are blustering that their un- 
happy rank is not recognised at Court, 
and threatening an ungrateful Sove- 
reign with the withdrawal of their 
services as a penalty for her want of ap- 
preciation. The uniform question has 
attained a melancholy importance ; there 
has been much childishness shown in 
the choosing of officers. Nevertheless, 
on the whole, he who drew from such, 
surface-signs the torn-foolery conclusion 
would be mistaken. 

Let any man go to a parade of Volun- 
teers, and just look at the rank and file, 
and he will be convinced. They are as 
a rule men, and not boys ; full-grown 
men, with professions and trades to 
work at, and families to support, or, at 
any rate, bread to earn for themselves. 
There is, probably, not one in five of 
them who has got over the feeling of 
dismay, bordering on disgust, which 
comes on him, whenever he finds him- 
self walking about the streets in a uni- 
form ; not one in a hundred Avho has 
not other pursuits to which he would 
rather give the time which volunteering 
swallows up ruthlessly. To many the 

192 The Volunteer s Catechism, with a Few Words on Butts. 

time is a serious pecuniary sacrifice. 
And yet they come time after time, and 
work undeniably well while they are at 
it, and bear meekly in the streets the 
frequent " Who shot the dog ?" and " As 
you were," of the youthful Cockney. 

You believe, then, that enough Eng- 
lishmen are downright in earnest about 
volunteering to make it a serious na- 
tional movement 1 Yes. Then be good 
enough to refer to the question put at 
the head of this paper, " What do these 
Englishmen who are downright in ear- 
nest mean by it all ? " 

A good many of us, perhaps, have 
hardly had time to answer that ques- 
tion to ourselves ; our volunteering time 
has been so well filled, what with 
goose step, and squad drill, and manual 
and platoon drill, and position and 
bayonet drill, and battalion drill, and 
skirmishing drill, and these last abomi- 
nably moist parade days in the parks, 
not to mention bye-days of what we may 
call foreign service on Putney Heath 
or the Scrubbs. However, let us see. 
Of course not one of us means just the 
same thing as his rear file, or right-hand 
man, or any other man of his corps. 
The pivot man of the right section, No. 1, 
means that he for his part hopes some 
day to fight a Zouave ; while he of the 
left, No. 2, desires mainly an appetite for 
dinner. Nevertheless, to a considerable 
extent we do all mean the same thing. 
There are a certain number of objects 
which we all aim at, though some care 
most to hit one, and some another. 

What, for instance ? 

Well, first and foremost, we mean 
that English homes are to be made abso- 
lutely, and beyond all question, safe. 
Love and reverence for home, for our 
women and children, for roof-tree and 
hearth ; upon that we found ourselves 
before all. That, many of us may be- 
lieve, perhaps, to be at the bottom of all 
true fighting, and of all true preparation 
for fighting ; whatever war-cry or banner 
may be in the air, all true fighting must, 
we should hold, base itself somehow on 
this, or be wild, mad work, probably, 
devil's work. No need to dwell on this 
part of our meaning. Has not our lau- 

reate gathered it all into eight deathless 
lines : 

Thy voice he hears in rolling drums 
That beat to battle where he stands, 
Thy face across his fancy comes 
And gives the battle to his hands ; 
One moment, while the trumpets blow, 
He sees his brood around thy knee ; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe, 
: And strikes him dead for thine and 

Then again, we mean that we are tho- 
roughly and fairly sick of invasion 
panics that in this last twelve years 
we have several tunes been eating our 
hearts out in shame and rage at seeing 
our great country whipped into wild 
terror by wild talk in the newspapers ; 
and that we don't want to stand much 
more of this sort of thing. We mean 
something more, too, than being done 
with panics, we mean that we want 
our Governments to steer a straight and 
steady course through the tangled drift- 
weed and icebergs of the ocean of modern 
politics : insulting no one, cringing to no 
one ; but standing faithfully and sternly 
by every righteous cause and every 
righteous man. They have not always 
done this of late; we have seen the 
weak bullied and the strong flattered, 
and have not enjoyed the sight. And 
now, when all old forms < >f national and 
social life in Europe are pitching in the 
heavy rising sea, ready to break from 
their moorings, and drift no man know- 
eth where, we want to see our country 
an ark to which all eyes may turn, and 
which will lend help to all who need it 
and deserve it, " A refuge from the 
" storm, a shadow from the heat, and the 
" blast of the terrible ones." This she 
may be, this she ought to be, this she 
can never be unless our Governments 
feel that they have a nation behind 
them on whom they can rely. England 
will want her whole strength in the 
times that are coming. We Volunteers 
mean that she shall have it ready for 
use in the most telling form ; and we 
believe that volunteering is the way to 
help her to it, and the only way. 

The Volunteer s Catechism, with a Few Words on Butts. 193 

Again, we mean that, all in good time, 
we want the Army Estimates lowered, 
and that we don't see our way to it 
except through effectual and permanent 

Again, notwithstanding the many 
noble efforts at social reform in the last 
twelve years, there is no denying that 
classes in England are still standing 
lamentably apart. The difficulty of find- 
ing a common standing-ground, anything 
in which we may all work together and 
take our pastime together ; where we can 
stand shoulder to shoulder, and man to 
man, each counting for what he is worth ; 
the peer without condescending, and the 
peasant without cringing, is almost as 
great as ever. Here, in volunteering, we 
think we have found what may, when 
rightly handled, do much towards filling 
up this gap, a common subject of in- 
terest, a bond which may in the end 
bind the nation together again in many 
other ways besides teaching us men how 
to form rallying squares, and prepare to 
receive cavalry side by side. 

Again, we mean that, to the best of 
our belief, steady volunteering will make 
individual Englishmen healthier of body, 
stronger and steadier of hand, quicker 
of eye, prompter in action, and more 
generally alert and intelligent than they 
are at present. 

This is not all we mean, but may 
suffice for the present. And now to pass 
to another side of the subject. 

As you are so bent on volunteering, 
Avhere do you mean to stop? Definite 
aims are desirable things : now, what are 
you volunteers going to be content with ] 
Will 200,000, with 40,000 or 50,000 
marksmen among them, do ? Will 
500,000, with 100,000 marksmen, do ? 

We shall have, no doubt, to put up 
with much less than we like, even if all 
things go well and smoothly (which 
they most assuredly won't); but if it 
conies to talking of being content, we 
shall be content with this and nothing 
less : We shall be content when it shall 
be held to be a slur on an adult English- 
man if he does not know the use of 
arms, and the ordinary drill of a sol- 
dier. We shall be content when the 

nation is armed and drilled, when every 
man shoulders musket once a week or 
so, as much as a matter of course as he 
puts on a decent coat on Sunday morn- 
ings. That is what will satisfy us as 
respects numbers. 

As respects proficiency, we shall be 
content when our corps are equal to 
any troops in the world that have never 
seen actual service when Lord Clyde, 
or General Mansfield, or our own In- 
spector-General, declares that he would 
as soon go into action with us as with 
any troops he ever saw, who had not 
smelt powder. Why not 1 What is to 
hinder it ? The short experience we 
have had proves that we are already 
treading on the heels of the regulars, if 
we don't beat them, in shooting. Surely, 
with a little resolution, and steady prac- 
tice, we can learn our drill as well as 
any of them. Eemember, we are only 
nine months old or so. What may we 
not hope in nine years' time 1 

Fine talk, my dear Sirs, fine talk ; but 
wouldn't it be better to draw it a little 
milder, and then people won't laugh so 
loud at your failures, which are sure to 
come. To which we reply in the words 
of good old George Herbert 

" Faint not in spirit ; he who aims the 

" Shoots higher far than he who 

means a tree." 

And so we leave our doubting friends* 
with the assurance that no amount of 
sage or sneering advice, cold water, or 
inextinguishable laughter shall hinder us 
from going as near this mark as we can. 
The only chance of getting near it at all 
is to start with the resolution to be 
content with nothing short of thorough 
success. A low standard will make no 
good men : we hope to pull up to a very- 
high one ; in any case, hit or miss, we 
refuse to square our hopes and cut down 
our practice to suit a low one. 

But let no one suppose that Volun- 
teers are not aware of the enormous 
difficulty of the work they have to do. 
We have all felt something of it already, 
and shall soon feel more of it. Just 
now, no doubt, volunteering is at flood 


The Volunteer's Catechism, with a Few Words on Butts. 

tide for the year 1860. We have been 
reviewed by her Majesty, and rather 
imagine that we have done ourselves 
credit. We are just going to shoot at 
the great national meeting, started, 
organized, and carried through, entirely 
by some of the leading Volunteers of 
the kingdom. We look forward shortly 
to our great sham-fighting, but not 
sham-working, field-day of the season ; 
when we hope to exhibit prodigies of 
valour and intelligence, under the com- 
mand of Volunteer brigadiers, but also 
under the approving and envious eyes 
of generals and colonels of the regulars. 
There will be a very different state of 
things when the next number of this 
Magazine appears. The volunteering 
appetite will then be beginning to lose 
its edge, and the up-hill work will be 
at hand. Enthusiasm will be cool- 
ing ; very possibly we shall be having 
small musters, careless drills, lots of 
withdrawals, and wiseacres will be say- 
ing, "We always told you how it 
would be." 

Very well we expect that it will be 
so ; we accept it, but we don't mean to be 
beat by it. The question will be then, 
how is it to be met 1 How are we to 
pull through the slack water so as to 
hold our corps together to make play 
again the moment the tide turns. That 
question will, no doubt, be pressing 
upon us soon, and will require practical 
consideration. Meantime, let Volunteers 
rejoice in the flood-tide. " Sufficient 
to the day is the evil thereof." We 
will utter nothing like the ghost of 
a croak just now. We shall better 
occupy ourselves by making these pages 
the means of imparting to others the 
experience we have been able to gather 
on the several subjects of interest and 
importance that have yet to be settled, 
and we can assure our readers that we 
do so in no pedantic spirit, but in the 
hope of aiding our brother Volunteers to 
avoid the mistakes and errors that we 
have ourselves committed. 

First in the list of subjects that press 
for immediate solution is that of prac- 
tice ranges for rifle shooting. Some 
companies of early formation are still 

without them ; some have but short dis- 
tances ; while others, holding as mere 
tenants at will, on sufferance, are unwil- 
ling to incur the necessary expenses in 
erecting a butt on such uncertain tenures. 
A really good range should satisfy the 
following conditions : It should be 1,000 
yards in length by 10 yards in width ; 
it should be level, or nearly so, along its 
entire distance ; it should intersect no 
rights of way, and none should cross its 
line of direction for 1,500 yards from 
the back of the targets, unless the ground 
rises and forms a natural bar to the 
flight of the bullet ; it should be readily 
accessible to the members of the corps, 
and therefore as central as possible with 
respect to head-quarters ; it should all 
be held of one lessor, who should also 
possess the land as well at the sides as 
at the back of the butt : in addition, 
there should also be spaces for the 
marker's butt or mantlet, and for a shed 
for shelter. The course, if it may be so 
called, would be not unlike the half-mile 
gallop at Newmarket. We are aware the 
conditions we have mentioned are rarely 
to be met with ; but where they do com- 
bine, they constitute a first-rate range, 
presenting the- grand features of safety 
with the constant means of practice. On 
such a ground, a substantial brick butt, 
with proper buttresses, 30 feet wide by 
20 feet high, with earth- work faced with 
turf up to 12 feet high, and amply suffi- 
cient for a single company, might be 
erected for about SQL ; and, including 
marker's butt and a timber-built shed, 
for 1001. over all, and in proportion 
for a larger erection. In some places an 
earth-work altogether might be more 
cheaply constructed, and, where so, it is 
the best, and in others a fascine or faggot- 
butt, and some have tried oak faced with 
iron ; but, as a general rule, the brick 
wall (14 inch work is enough) will be 
found the most economical, and it gives 
that impression of permanency which 
of all things at present it is so desir- 
able to create. There it stands fixed 
and demonstrative against all cavillers 
of the success of the first effort a 
monument of the hearty good- will and 
patriotism of the present generation; 

The Volunteer s Catechism, with a Few Words on Butts. 


the point around which larger efforts in 
the same direction may centre in future, 
should the necessity arise. It is not 
until every village in England contains 
its rifle-practice range, that the Volun- 
teer system will be established without 
fear of relapse; and we sincerely trust 
that the present summer will witness 
the erection of good and substantial 
butts in every part of the country. 

Now it will be found that in most 
neighbourhoods but one such range as we 
have described could be selected : 1,000 
yards is a long stretch of land, and 
when 1,500 more is added to it, it taxes 
the capacities of a country, as any engi- 
neer, or follower of hounds, will tell you. 
Harford Bridge Flat, which tried the 
speed and bottom of the Quicksilver 
Mail or Exeter Telegraph teams in the 
old coaching tunes, was unique in its 
way ; and, passing by the other conditions 
as more or less attainable, it follows as a 
trule, that in any particular district there 
is but one best range, and it becomes an 
object of the greatest importance to the 
volunteer corps to obtain it. 

We will throw out of consideration 
the cases of those fortunate companies 
that are placed near some friendly pro- 
prietor, who at once accommodates them 
with all that can be wished for, as these 
form but a small percentage of the whole, 
and we will deal with those less happily 
circumstanced, who are in view of the 
promised land, but are denied the access, 
and have to conduct the hard negotiation 
with lukewarm or unfriendly occupiers, 
who would fain repeat the story of the 
railways, and exact almost fabulous prices 
for acreage and accommodation. 1,000 
yards multiplied by 10, gives 2 A. OR. 10p. 
and allowing 3 OP. more for mantlet 
and shed, two acres and a quarter is all 
that is required, and 10?., or, at the 
most, 15?. an acre, should be a fair com- 
pensation : but little real injury is done ; 
no fencing is required, and the occupier 
has the herbage if the land is in grass. 
The following simple form of agreement 
is all that is necessary between the par- 
ties ; of course, any special terms inci- 
dent to particular cases may be added, 
but in ordinary cases, and for getting on 

comfortably together, the simpler the 
agreement the better : 

" Date [say 24th June, I860]. Agree- 
" ment between A. B. [the occupier] and 
" C. D. [the captain of the company], as 
" follows : 

"1. The said A. B. lets, and the 
"said C. D. takes, at 221. 10s. yearly 
" rent, the use of the plot marked off 
" by white posts from the closes No. 4, 
" 5, and 6 [as the case may be], in the 
" parish map of [name of parish], and 
" containing 2A. IB., the rent to be paid 
" quarterly, and first on the 29th of 
" September next. 

" 2. The said plot is to be used as a 
" Rifle Practice Range for the 
" Volunteers, and such other corps or 
" persons as they may permit, and may 
"be excavated, and all necessary erec- 
" tions and earth- works made and placed 
" thereon for that purpose. 

" 3. The said A, B. may use the said 
"plot for any purpose not interfering 
" with the said C. D.'s uses, but shall not 
" be compensated for any injury to crops 
"occasioned by such uses, nor permit 
" any rifle practice on the plot without 
" the said C. D.'s sanction : injuries to 
" live stock to be compensated for." 
(Signed) " A. B. 
"C. D." 

A copy should be signed by each party, 
and the stamp will be in proportion to 
the rent. See the stamp tables. 

And here it will be proper to call 
attention to the false position in which 
corps and companies are placed by the 
conditions of acceptance of offers of ser- 
vice in the memorandum issued by the 
"War Office, and which are enforced 
through the medium of the lords-lieu- 
tenant of counties. By the 2d condition 
" Before giving his sanction for the 
" formation of any rifle corps, the Secre- 
" tary of State will require that safe 
" ranges for rifle practice be obtained of 
"not less than 200 yards this being 
" the minimum of any practical utility." 
The words are be obtained. It is clear 
that this requirement is entirely out of 
place as a condition precedent, it should 


The Volunteer's Catechism, with a Few Words on Butts. 

be assumed, in aid of the formation of 
rifle companies, that safe ranges for rifle 
practice, of not less than 200 yards, are 
obtainable in any neighbourhood ; and 
if supervision for the protection of the 
public is necessary, the check should 
come in its proper time, and not be ap- 
plied until the men are ready to begin 
shooting with ball-cartridge. In its 
regular sequence it should stand side by 
side with the recent War Office circular, 
which enjoins officers commanding not 
to permit ball- practice until the members 
have obtained the certificate of the in- 
spector appointed by Government. There 
are plenty of difficulties to be overcome 
by the promoters of a volunteer rifle 
company on the threshold of the un- 
dertaking, without having impossible 
conditions imposed on them ; and that 
this is impossible, if it be construed 
strictly, is clear, for all that can be 
assumed at the tune it is insisted on is, 
that there is a reasonable expectation 
that a particular range, of which the 
inspection is invited, can be had. At 
this point of time, there are no parties 
to bind : the captain, with whom the 
legal contract can alone be made, is not 
appointed ; the committee of manage- 
ment, or whoever is promoting the effort, 
can only say to the occupier of the 
land, if we succeed in forming a corps, 
we will take such a range from you 
on such terms, to which the occupier 
assents. All, however, is inchoate, in- 
complete, and prospective ; it is sure 
to be weeks, and it may be months, be- 
fore the time conies when the need of 
the range arises ; in the interim, the mere 
passage of time may work changes in 
the position or will of the parties that 
may prevent the carrying out the origi- 
nal proposal ; fresh terms may become 
necessary, and a fresh status induced. 
It requires but a glance to see the false 
position the corps stands in all this 
time ; they have been formed on the 
faith of a condition they may be unable 
to fulfil, and when the time comes, 
should the arrangement fall through, 
they are a company without a range, its 
having been obtained being the condition 
of their very existence. And the ano- 

maly is rendered the more striking by 
the fact, ihat the subsequent breach of 
the condition does not suspend the com- 
pany; and so, while they cannot form 
without a range, they can continue with- 
out one ; and, as soon as they can obtain 
the promise of another, they can invite 
a fresh inspection, which is ordered as a 
matter of course, and the only penalty 
inflicted is that it shall take place at 
the charge of the company. We ask, 
can anything be more illogical 1 A 
condition . is imposed, which common 
sense treats as impossible by both sides 
from first to last. Still it has had a 
retarding influence, and in some in- 
stances has prevented the formation of 
companies, and would have done so in 
still more, but that all prospective diffi- 
culties have been disregarded in the 
general enthusiasm that has carried out 
the national will ; and besides, the time 
is only now come with the majority of 
corps that were formed at the close of 
1859 and the beginning of 1860, in 
which the difficulty of obtaining a good 
range is beginning to be felt. The time 
is also now come that this condition 
be swept out of the requisitions alto- 

The setting up a rifle company is a 
matter of steps ; and, in the ordinary 
course, the very last round of the ladder 
is the shooting with ball at the butts. 
The committee meetings, the corre- 
spondence with the lord - lieutenant, 
the approval of the corps by her Ma- 
jesty, the choice of uniform, the ap- 
pointment of officers, the engagement 
of drill and musketry instructors, the 
recruit and company drill, the position 
practice and musketry lessons these, as 
well as the obtaining of the certificate of 
the inspector appointed by the Govern- 
ment, all precede the actual ball practice 
at the targets. Why then should the 
obtaining the range be made the thread 
upon which the whole is to depend, and 
that at the risk of the promoters, who 
have long since discharged their duties, 
and have either merged into the body 
of the corps, or ceased to. retain all con- 
nexion with it 1 We have dwelt at some 
detail on this, as it has an important 

The Volunteer s Catechism, with a Few Words on Butts. 


bearing on that part of the case in which 
we insist that facilities should be afforded 
by the Legislature in procuring rifle 
ranges for the Volunteers, instead of the 
hindrance which is imposed by the ope- 
ration of the present rule. 

We now approach a more interesting 
branch of the subject, and proceed to 
inquire into the legal questions that will 
be sure to arise out of the exercise of 
ball practice at the targets. In some 
sense it may be considered as the conflict 
of the public with the private right, for 
it is a simple sequitur that if the volun- 
teer movement is meritorious, the be- 
coming expert marksmen, which must 
be attained by practice at the butts, is 
meritorious also. Still, in many cases, 
perhaps even in most, this practice will 
interfere with the enjoyment of others ; 
a neighbouring owner or occupier, for 
instance, can scarcely be expected to 
walk about his farm within reach of the 
shooting, inspecting crops and cattle, 
with that calm repose, that slowness of 
mind, that has been the privilege of the 
Boeotian intellect for so many ages. If 
he could feel morally certain that all his 
volunteer friends were marksmen that, 
if they missed the target, they would at 
least hit the butt it might be otherwise ; 
but he knows that with every precaution 
there will be some who will be sure to 
miss not only the target, but the butt 
also, and that that Minie bullet has a 
wonderful long track of its own, and 
may come dropping about in a most 
unexpected manner. Things are a little 
ticklish and uncomfortable then, and his 
ear becomes " less Irish and more nice." 
Can he, however, complain ] Can he 
insist on the reduction of rent 1 Has 
he any legal redress 1 The volunteers 
are doing no unlawful act. On the con- 
trary, they are exercising a lawful and 
praiseworthy vocation. Before the ball 
practice begins, the occupier can only 
complain that he is afraid of what will 
happen; and, as the common law re- 
dresses only actual injuries, he has no 
right of action until he is injured in 
person or property : neither could he 
treat the prospective as the existing 
nuisance, and proceed to abate it by his 

own act, or indict it on the criminal 
side of the court. At this time it is 
all " quia timet," and his only remedy 
would be by moving for an injunction 
in Chancery to restrain the ball practice. 
His success here would probably depend 
on the particular case ; in some instances 
it might be granted, while in others it 
would be refused ; and at most, perhaps, 
he might only be able to restrain the 
practice of the company until guarantees 
were given to the satisfaction of the 
court that proper butts would be erected 
and all proper precautions taken ; that 
the Hythe rules for shooting would be 
strictly observed, and that all shooting 
would be in the presence of an officer, 
and the results duly registered. Still, a 
proceeding in Chancery, however quickly 
disposed of, would fall hard on the com- 
pany ; and few have funds to spare for 
any such contingency. Again, assuming 
the occupier to lie by and wait until 
some stray bullet had found its way into 
his land, we can imagine his stumbling 
upon it with feelings akin to those of 
Eobinson Crusoe, when he discovered 
the print of the foot on the sand ; there 
it is, sure enough, and the next may be 
for him. Now, however, he has his 
action of trespass, and he may sue the 
man who fired the shot, if he can find 
him out; or the officer who gave the 
order for the practice, for the bare in- 
terference of the unwelcome stranger 
with his land. Juries would not be likely 
to give him much ; but the mere flight 
over his soil by the bullet, though it 
lodged in land beyond his, would entitle 
him to his suit; and it is this that 
renders it so important that the land on 
the sides and at the back of the butts 
should all be in one holding with the 
range itself : in such case the rights are 
governed by the contract ; but otherwise 
the corps must purchase the goodwill 
of others, if they wish for an immunity 
from legal proceedings. It is clear, 
from what we have said, that if the 
position of a neighbouring occupier is 
ticklish from the flight of some random 
bullet, that of the commanding officer 
is not less so from the not much worse 
bullet of the law. He may be called on 

198 The Volunteer s Catechism, with a Few Words on Butts. 

to defend acts done in his absence, and 
to make compensations for which he has 
no funds from the corps. Nay, even 
it may become a question for a jury, 
whether the butt was a reasonable and 
proper butt, looking at all the surround- 
ing circumstances of time and place. Ten 
feet high, or even the targets alone, 
might be ample on Salisbury plain ; 
while ten feet multiplied by five would 
be insufficient in some of the populous 
neighbourhoods of London . or Liver- 
pool. . Should the metropolis ever be 
fortified in the manner suggested in a 
very able paper recently published in a 
contemporary journal, the earthworks 
themselves will probably solve the ques- 
tion for the Middlesex companies, by 
supplying excellent butts at their bases ; 
in the interim, however, the position 
is an uncertain one, and there . can be 
no doubt corps will be exposed to the 
risk of suits both at law and in equity, 
from which, in our opinion, in the pro- 
secution of a public object, they ought 
to be relieved. It will have to be set- 
tled whether the commission of the 
volunteer officer protects him for acts 
done without negligence in the discharge 
of his duty, although they may occasion 
injury and loss to others ; and in the 
present uncertainty occasioned by the 
novelty of the subject, we suggest that 
the Government inspector should be 
called on to certify the fitness of all 
butts for rifle practice, and that his cer- 
tificate be held conclusive in the courts 
of judicature of the country. This would 
at once narrow the questions at issue 
very considerably, and be a great pro- 
tection, as well to the public as to corps 
and their commanding officers. As 
matters stand at present, it is certain 
that officers commanding volunteer com- 
panies incur risks that do not attach to 
officers in the regular service, simply 
because all ball practice is carried on by 
the latter in places absolutely safe ; and, 
besides, their commission protects them. 
With the volunteer officers, however, it 
is a question yet to be settled, whether 
their commission protects ; and it will 
take some time to erect absolutely safe 
butts throughout the country ; and we 

therefore warn all volunteer officers com- 
manding of the absolute necessity there 
is of adopting every precaution, and re- 
quiring a most rigid observance of the 
rules that have been laid down at Hy the 
relating to ball practice. Had this been 
done, the shooting of the dog, which 
brought so much odium on Volunteers, 
could not have happened. No shooting 
about by individuals at their own will 
and pleasure should be permitted at all. 
The ball practice should be at the butts, 
and butts alone, and always in the pre- 
sence of an officer or Serjeant, and the 
results always registered. If men will 
practise otherwise, they should do it with 
their own rifles, and at their own proper 
risk and costs. 

Having thus shown the difficulties 
that beset the obtaining of rifle ranges, 
and the risks incurred in the use of 
them, we have to consider what mea- 
sures should be taken to assure the 
proper amount of ball practice by the 
Volunteer on the one side, with the 
greatest possible safety to the public 
on the other. It is a problem by, no 
means easy to solve. We strongly main- 
tain, as a first step, that all that pertains 
to the actual rifle practice that is to 
say, the weapon itself, the ammunition, 
and the range should be supplied by the 
country. The rifleman, in finding time 
and uniform, makes the far larger sacri- 
fice to say nothing of the many inci- 
dental expenses of railway travelling, 
and the like ; and, even if an extra half- 
penny in the pound is added to the 
income-tax, he helps to pay it. At pre- 
sent, the rifles themselves are supplied, 
and the ammunition and ranges should 
follow ; but, if these be withheld, we 
then insist that a compulsory power 
should be conferred by statute, enabling 
corps to lease the butt-ranges in their 
respective neighbourhoods, making all 
reasonable compensation to the occu- 
piers of the land. In all probability, 
recourse would seldom be had to the 
Act, as the knowledge that it might be 
resorted to would facilitate negotiation. 
Neither of our suggestions need inter- 
fere with the free action of the system, 
which freedom should be maintained 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


strictly inviolate. The movement can 
only be carried out to its grand ultimate 
end, of every man in England who is 
capable becoming a Volunteer, by the 
energy and free-will of the people them- 
selves. We would only give it greater 
play, and a more extended action, by 
releasing it from the obstacles that now 
impede its progress, and by making 
the Government responsible for the 
ranges. Already the movement has 
achieved wonders, and the infant of 
yesterday has expanded into the giant 
of to-day, clasping with the arms of a 
Briareus the whole length and breadth 
of the land. To all classes it appeals 
alike as a source of pleasure and advan- 
tage ; it combines duty with pastime, 
health with sport ; it banishes sloth and 
inaction, and frowns upon dandyism and 
tinsel ; it strengthens the love of coun- 
try, and enhances the blessings of home ; 
it gathers men together in a generous 
rivalry and cheerful exercise, and will 
sustain and renew perhaps increase 
the pristine vigour of the race. And it 
was time that some such diversion should 

have reached us. In the higher ranks, 
the manly love of sport was becoming 
bastard and degenerate the miserable 
battues had well-nigh trodden out the 
old keen zest and love of it ; in the 
middle ranks, the eagerness for business 
and habit of money-getting was fast ab- 
sorbing every thought, to the detriment 
of all the higher and nobler instincts j 
while the lower classes, struggling in the 
contest for life, were too far apart from 
the rest to feel that there was an identity 
of interest for them. The people were 
still " the lords of human! kind ; " but 
it required some strong stimulus to 
awaken all the native energy of the 
race. This the rifle movement has 
done, and the fondest aspiration of the 
" high chief of Scottish song," should 
the stern necessity arise, would now 
certainly be realized 

" And howe'er crowns and coronets 

be rent, 

" A virtuous populace will arise the while, 
" And stand a wall of fire around our 
much-loved isle." 





THERE was a silence of a few seconds 
after the Captain had finished his story, 
all the men sitting with eyes fixed on 
him, and not a little surprised at the 
results of their call. Drysdale was the 
first to break the silence, which he did 
with a " By George ! " and a long respi- 
ration ; but, as he did not seem pre- 
pared with any further remark, Tom 
took up the running. 

" What a strange story," he said ; 
"and that really happened to you, 
Captain Hardy?" 

"To me, sir, in the Mediterranean, 
more than forty years ago." 

" The strangest thing about it is that 

the old commodore should have managed 
to get all the way to the ship, and then 
not have known where his nephew was," 
said Blake. 

" He only knew his nephew's berth, 
you see, sir," said the Captain. 

" But he might have beat about 
through the ship till he had found him." 

" You must remember that he was at 
his last breath, sir," said the Captain ; 
" you can't expect a man to have his 
head clear at such a moment." 

" Not a man, perhaps ; but I should a 
ghost," said .Blake. 

" Time was everything to him," went 
on the Captain, without regarding the 
interruption, " space nothing. But the 
strangest part of it is that / should have 
seen the figure at all. It's true I had 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

been thinking of the old uncle, because 
of the boy's illness ; but I can't suppose 
he was thinking of me, and, as I say, he 
never recognised ine. I have taken a 
great deal of interest in such matters 
since that time, but I have never met 
with just such a case as this." 

"JSTo, that is the puzzle. One can 
fancy his appearing to his nephew well 
enough," said Tom. 

" We can't account for these things, 
or for a good many other things which 
ought to be quite as startling, only we 
see them every day. But now I think 
it is time for us to be going, eh, Jack ? " 
and the Captain and his son rose to go. 

Tom saw that it would be no kindness 
to them to try to prolong the sitting, 
and so he got up too, to accompany 
them to the gates. This broke up the 
party. Before going, Drysdale, after 
whispering to Tom, went up to Captain 
Hardy, and said, 

" I want to ask you to do me a favour, 
sir. Will you and your son breakfast 
with me to-morrow ? " 

"We shall be very happy, sir," said 
the Captain. 

" I think, father, you had better break- 
fast with me, quietly. We are much 
obliged to Mr. Drysdale, but I can't 
give up a whole morning. Besides, I 
have several things to talk to you about." 

"Nonsense, Jack," blurted out the 
old sailor, " leave your books alone for 
one morning. I'm come up here to enjoy 
myself, and see your friends." 

Hardy gave a slight shrug of his 
shoulders at the word friends, and Drys- 
dale, who saw it, looked a little confused. 
He had never asked Hardy to his rooms 
before. The Captain saw that something 
was the matter, and hastened in his own 
way to make all smooth again. 

" Never mind Jack, sir," he said, " he 
shall come. It's a great treat to me to 
be with young men, especially when they 
are friends of my boy." 

"I hope you'll come as a personal 
favour to me," said Drysdale, turning to 
Hardy. "Brown, you'll bring him, 
won't you ?" 

" Oh yes, I'm sure he'll come," said 

"That's all right. Good-night, then;" 
and Drysdale went off. 

Hardy and Tom accompanied the 
Captain to the gate. During his passage 
across the two quadrangles, the old gen- 
tleman was full of the praises of the 
men, and of protestations as to the im- 
provement in social manners and cus- 
toms since his day, when there could 
have been no such meeting, he declared, 
without blackguardism and drunken- 
ness, at least amongst young officers, but 
then they had less to think of than 
Oxford men, no proper education. And 
so the Captain was evidently'travelling 
back into the great trireme question 
when they reached the gate. As they 
could go no farther with him, however, 
he had to carry away his solution of the 
three-banks-of-oars difficulty in his own 
bosom to the Mitre. 

" Don't let us go in," said Tom, as the 
gate closed on the Captain, and they 
turned back into the quadrangle, "let 
us take a turn or two;" so they walked 
up and down the inner quad in the 

Just at first they were a good deal 
embarrassed and confused : but before 
long, though not without putting con- 
siderable force on himself, Tom got back 
into something like his old familiar way 
of unbosoming himself to his refound 
friend, and Hardy showed more than his 
old anxiety to meet him half-way. His 
ready and undisguised sympathy soon 
dispersed the few remaining clouds 
which were still hanging between them ; 
and Tom found it almost a pleasure, 
instead of a dreary task, as he had an- 
ticipated, to make a full confession, and 
state the case clearly and strongly 
against himself to one who claimed 
neither by word nor look the least 
superiority over him, and never seemed 
to remember that he himself had been 
ill-treated in the matter. 

" He had such a chance of lecturing 
me and didn't do it," thought Tom 
afterwards, when he was considering 
why he felt so very grateful to Hardy. 
" It was so cunning of him, too. If 
he had begun lecturing, I should have 
begun to defend myself, and never have 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


felt half such a scamp as I did when I 
was telling it all out to him in my own 

The result of Hardy's management 
was that Tom made a clean breast of it, 
telling everything, down to his night at 
the ragged school ; and what an effect 
his chance opening of the Apology had 
had on him. Here for the first time 
Hardy came in with his usual dry, keen 
voice, "You needn't have gone so far 
back as Plato for that lesson." 

" I don't understand," said Tom. 

"Well, there's something about an 
indwelling spirit which guideth every 
man in St. Paul, isn't there 1 " 

"Yes, a great deal," Tom answered, 
after a pause ; " but it isn't the same 

" Why not the same thing?" 

" Oh, surely you must feel it. It 
would be almost blasphemy in us now 
to talk as St. Paul talked. It is much 
easier to face the notion, or the fact, 
of a demon or spirit such as Socrates 
felt to be in him, than to face what St. 
Paul seems to be meaning." 

" Yes, much easier. The only ques- 
tion is whether we will be heathens or 

" How do you mean ?" said Tom. 

" Why, a spirit was speaking to So- 
crates, and guiding him. He obeyed 
the guidance, but knew not whence it 
came. A spirit is striving with us too, and 
trying to guide us we feel that just as 
much as he did. Do we know what 
spirit it is ? whence it comes ? Will 
we obey it ? If we can't name it know 
no more of it than he knew about his 
demon, of course we are in no better 
position than he in fact, heathens." 

Tom made no answer, and, after a 
silent turn or two more, Hardy said, 
"Let us go in;" and they went to his 
rooms. When the candles were lighted, 
Tom saw the array of books on the 
table, several of them open, and re- 
membered how near the examinations 

" I see you want to work," he said. 
" Well, good night. I know how fellows 
like you hate being thanked there, you 
needn't wince; I'm not going to try it 

ISTo. 9. VOL. ii. 

on. The best way to thank you, I 
know, is to go straight for the future, 
I'll do that, please God, this time at 
any rate. !Now what ought I to do, 

"Well, it's very hard to say. I've 
thought about it a great deal this last 
few days since I felt you were coming 
round but can't make up my mind. 
How do you feel yourself? What's 
your own instinct about it?" 

" Of course I must break it all off at 
once, completely," said Tom mournfully, 
and half hoping that Hardy might not 
agree with him. 

" Of course," answered Hardy, " but 

" In the way that will pain her least. 
I would sooner lose my hand or bite 
my tongue off than that she should feel 
lowered, or lose any self-respect, you 
know," said Tom, looking helplessly at 
his friend. 

"Yes, thafs all right, you must 
take all you can on your own shoulders. 
It must leave a sting though for both of 
you, manage how you will." 

" But I can't bear to let her think I 
don't care for her I needn't do that 
I can't do that." 

" I don't know what to advise. How- 
ever, I believe I was wrong in thinking 
she cared for you so much. She will 
be hurt, of course she can't help being 
hurt but it won't be so bad as I used 
to think." 

Tom made no answer ; in spite of all 
his good resolutions, he was a little 
piqued at this last speech. Hardy went 
on presently, " I wish she were well out 
of Oxford. It's a bad town for a girl 
to be living in, especially as a barmaid 
in a place which we haunt. I don't 
know that she will take much harm 
now ; but it's a very trying thing for a 
girl of that sort to be thrown every day 
amongst a dozen young men above her 
in rank, and not one in ten of whom 
has any manliness about him." 

" How do you mean no man- 

"I mean that a girl in her position 
isn't safe with us. If we had any man- 
liness in us she would be " 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

" You can't expect all men to be 
.blocks of ice, or milksops," said Tom, 
who was getting nettled. 

" Don't think that I meant you," said 
Hardy ; " indeed I didn't. But surely, 
think a moment ; is it a proof of manli- 
ness that the pure and the weak should 
fear you and shrink from you ? Which 
is the true ay, and the brave man, 
he who trembles before a woman, or he 
before whom a woman trembles V 

"Neither," said Tom; "but I see 
what you mean, and when you put it 
that way it's clear enough." 

" But you're wrong in saying 'neither,' 
if you do see what I mean." Tom was 
silent. ' " Can there be any true man- 
liness without purity 1 " went on Hardy. 
Tom drew a deep breath, but said 
nothing. "And where then can you 
point to a place where there is so little 
manliness as here ? It makes my blood 
boil to see what one must see every day. 
There are a set of men up here, and 
have been ever since I can remember 
the place, not one of whom can look at 
a modest woman without making her 

"There must always be some black- 
guards," said Tom. 

" Yes ; but unluckily the blackguards 
set the fashion, and give the tone to 
public opinion. I'm sure both of us 
have seen enough to know perfectly 
well that up here, amongst us under- 
graduates, men who are deliberately and 
avowedly profligates, are rather admired 
and courted, are said to know the 
world, and all that, while a man who 
tries to lead a pure life, and makes no 
secret of it, is openly sneered at by 
them, looked down on more or less by 
the great mass of men, and, to use the 
word you used just now, thought a 
milksop by almost all." 

" I don't think it is so bad as that," 
said Tom. " There are many men who 
would respect him, though they might 
not be able to follow him." 

" Of course, I never meant that there 
are not many such, but they don't set 
the fashion. I am sure I'm right. Let 
us try it by the best test. Haven't you 
and I in our secret hearts this cursed 

feeling, that the sort of man we are talk- 
ing of is a milksop 1" 

After a moment's thought, Tom an- 
swered, "I am afraid I have, but I 
really am thoroughly ashamed of it 
now, Hardy. But you haven't it. If 
you had it you could never have spoken 
to me as you have." 

" I beg your pardon. No man is 
more open than I to the bad influences 
of any place he lives in. God knows 
I am even as other men, and worse ; for 
I have been taught ever since I could 
speak, that the crown of all real man- 
liness, of all Christian manliness, is 

Neither of the two spoke for some 
minutes. Then Hardy looked at his 

" Past eleven," he said. " I must do 
some work. Well, Brown, this will 
be a day to be remembered in my 

Tom wrung his hand, but did not 
venture to reply. As he got to the door, 
however, he turned back, and said 

" Do you think I ought to write to 

" Well, you can try. You'll find it a 
bitter business, I fear." 

" I'll try, then. Good night" 

Tom went to his own rooms, and set 
to work -to write his letter ; and cer- 
tainly found it as difficult and unplea- 
sant a task as he had ever set himself 
to work upon. Half a dozen times he 
tore up sheet after sheet of his attempts ; 
and got up and walked about, and 
plunged and kicked mentally against 
the collar and traces in which he had 
harnessed himself by his friend's help, 
trying to convince himself that Hardy 
was a Puritan, who had lived quite 
differently from other men, and knew 
nothing of what a man ought to do in 
a case like this. That after all very 
little harm had been done ! The world 
would never go on at all if people were 
to be so scrupulous ! Probably, not 
another man in the College, except Gray, 
perhaps, would think anything of what 
he had done ! Done ! why, what had 
he done? He couldn't be taking it 
more seriously if he had ruined her ! 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


At this point he managed to bring 
himself up sharp again more than once. 
" No thanks to me, at any rate, that she 
isn't mined. Had I any pity, any 
scruples 1 My God, what a mean, selfish 
rascal I have been ! " and then he sat 
down again, and wrote, and scratched 
out what he had written, till the other 
fit came on, and something of the same 
process had to be gone through again. 

I am sure all readers must recognise 
the process, and will remember many 
occasions on which they have had to put 
bridle and bit on, and ride themselves 
as if they had been horses or mules 
without understanding ; and what a 
trying business it was as bad as getting 
a young colt past a gipsy encampment 
in a narrow lane. 

At last, after many trials, Tom got 
himself well in hand, and produced 
something which seemed to satisfy him ; 
for, after reading it three or four times, 
he put it in a cover, with a small case, 
which he produced from his desk, sealed 
it, directed it, and then went to bed. 

Next morning, after chapel, he joined 
Hardy, and walked to his rooms with 
him, and after a few words on indif- 
ferent matters, said 

" Well, I wrote my letter last night." 

" Did you satisfy yourself ? " 

"Yes, I think so. I don't know, 
though, on second thoughts : it was 
very tough work." 

" I was afraid you wo~uld find it so." 

" But wouldn't you like to see it ? " 

" No, thank you. I suppose my father 
will be here directly." 

"But I wish you would read it 
through," said Tom, producing a copy. 

"Well, if you wish it, I suppose I 
must ; but I don't see how I can do any 

Hardy took the letter, and sat down, 
and Tom drew a chair close to him, 
and watched his face while he read : 

" It is best for us both that I should 
not see you any more, at least, at pre- 
sent. I feel that I have done you a 
great wrong. I dare not say much to 
you, for fear of making that wrong 
greater. I cannot, I need not tell you 
how I despise myself now how I long 

to make you any amends in my power: 
If ever I can be of any service to you, 
I do hope that nothing which has 
passed will hinder you from applying 
to me. You will not believe how it 
pains me to write this ; how should you? 
I don't deserve that you should believe 
anything I say. I must seem heartless 
to you ; I have been, I am heartless. 
I hardly know what I am writing. 
I shall long all my life to hear good 
news of you. I don't ask you to pardon 
me, but if you can prevail on yourself 
not to send back the enclosed, and will 
keep it as a small remembrance of one 
who is deeply sorry for the wrong he 
has done you, but who cannot and will 
not say he is sorry that he ever met you, 
you will be adding another to the many 
kindnesses which I have to thank you 
for, and which I shall never forget." 

Hardy read it over several times, as 
Tom watched impatiently, unable to 
make out anything from his face. 

"What do you think? You don't 
think there's anything wrorg in it, 
I hope?" 

"No, indeed, my dear fellow. I really 
think it does you credit. I don't know 
what else you could have said very 
well, only " 

"Only what?" 

" Couldn't you have made it a little 

"No, I couldn't ; but you don't mean 
that. What did you mean by that 

"Why, I don't think this letter will 
end the business ; at least, I'm afraid 

"But what more could I have said ?" 

"Nothing more, certainly; but couldn't 
you have been a little quieter -it's dif- 
ficult to get the right word a little 
cooler, perhaps. Couldn't you have 
made the part about not seeing her 
again a little more decided?" 

"But you said I needn't pretend I 
didn't care for her." 

"Did I?" 

" Yes. Besides, it would have been 
a lie." 

" I don't want you to tell a lie, cer- 
tainly. But how about this ' small re- 



Tom Brown at Oxford. 

membrance' that you speak of? What's 

" Oh, nothing ! only a little locket I 
bought for her." 

" With some of your hair in it ?" 

u Well, of course ! Come, now, there's 
no harm in that." 

" JS"o ; no harm. Do you think she 
will wear it?" 

"How can I tell?" 

" It may make her think it isn't all 
at an end, I'm afraid. If she always 
wears your hair " 

"By Jove, you're too bad, Hardy. 
I wish you had had to write it yourself. 
It's all very easy to pull my letter to 
pieces, I dare say, but" 

"I didn't want to read it, remember." 

"No more you did. I forgot. But 
I wish you would just write down now 
what you would have said." 

"Yes, I think I see myself at it. 
By the way, of course you have sent 
your letter?" 

" Yes, I sent it off before chapel." 

" I thought so. In that case I don't 
think we need trouble ourselves further 
with the form of the document" 

" Oh, thaf s only shirking. How do 
you know I may not want it for the 
' next occasion?" 

"No, no ! Don't let us begin laugh- 
ing about it. A man never ought to 
have to write such letters twice in his 
life. If he has, why he may get a 
good enough precedent for the second 
out of the ' Complete Letter Writer.' " 

" So you won't correct my copy ?" 
/'No, not!" 

At this point in their dialogue, Cap- 
tain Hardy appeared on the scene, and 
the party went off to Drysdale's to 

Captain Hardy's visit to St. Ambrose 
was a great success. He stayed some 
four or five days, and saw everything 
that was to be seen, and enjoyed it all 
in a sort of reverent way which was 
almost comic. Tom devoted himself to 
the work of cicerone, and did his best 
to do the work thoroughly. Oxford 
was a sort of Utopia to the Captain, 
who was resolutely bent on seeing 
nothing but beauty and learning and 

wisdom within the precincts of the 
University. On one or two occasions 
his faith was tried sorely by the sight 
of young gentlemen gracefully apparelled, 
dawdling along two together in low easy 
pony carriages, or lying on their backs 
in punts for hours smoking, with not 
even a Bell's Life by them to pass the 
time. Dawdling and doing nothing 
were the objects of his special abhor- 
rence ; but with this trifling exception 
the Captain continued steadily to behold 
towers and quadrangles, and chapels, 
and the inhabitants of the colleges, 
through rose-coloured spectacles. His 
respect for a "regular education," and 
for the seat of learning at which it was 
dispensed, was so strong, that he invested 
not only the tutors, doctors, and proctors 
(of whom he saw little except at a dis- 
tance) but even the most empty-headed 
undergraduate whose acquaintance he 
made, with a sort of fancy halo of scien- 
tific knowledge, and often talked to 
those youths in a way which was curi- 
ously bewildering and embarrassing to 
them. Drysdale was particularly hit by 
it. He had humour and honesty enough 
himself to appreciate the Captain, but 
it was a constant puzzle to him to know 
what to make of it all. 

" He's a regular old brick, is the Cap- 
tain," he said to Tom, on the last even- 
ing of the old gentleman's visit ; " but, 
by Jove, I can't help thinking he must 
be poking fun at us half his time. It 
is rather too rich to hear him talking on 
as if we were all as fond of Greek as he 
seems to be, and as if no man ever got 
drunk up here." 

" I declare I think he believes it," 
said Tom. " You see we're all careful 
enough before him." 

" That son of his too must be a good 
fellow. Don't you see he can never 
have peached. His father was telling 
me last night what a comfort it was to 
him to see that Jack's poverty had been 
no drawback to him. He had always 
told him it would be so amongst English 
gentlemen, and now he found him living 
quietly and independently, and yet on 
equal terms, and friends with men far 
above him in rank and fortune, 'like 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


you, sir,' the old boy said. By Jove, 
Brown, I felt devilish foolish. I believe 
I blushed, and it isn't often I indulge 
in that sort of luxury. If I weren't 
ashamed of doing it now, I should try 
to make friends with Hardy. But I 
don't know how to face him, and I 
doubt whether he wouldn't think me 
too much of a rip to be intimate with." 

Tom at his own special request at- 
tended the Captain's departure, and took 
his seat opposite to him and his son at 
the back of the Southampton coach, to 
accompany him a few miles out of 
Oxford. For the first mile the Captain 
was full of the pleasures of his visit, 
and of invitations to Tom to come and 
see them in the vacation. If he did not 
mind homely quarters he would find a 
hearty welcome, and there was no finer 
bathing and boating place on the coast. 
If he liked to bring his gun, there were 
plenty of blue rock-pigeons and sea- 
otters in the caves at the point. Tom 
protested with the greatest sincerity that 
there was nothing he should enjoy so 
much. Then the young men gof down 
to walk up Bagley Hill, and when they 
mounted again found the Captain with 
a large leather case in his hand, out of 
which he took two five-pound notes, 
and began pressing them on his son, 
while Tom tried to look as if he did not 
know what was going on. For some 
time Hardy steadily refused, and the 
contention became animated, and it was 
useless to pretend any longer not to hear. 

" Why, Jack, you're not too proud, I 
hope, to take a present from your own 
father," the Captain said at last. 

" But, my dear father, I don't want 
the money. You make me a very good 
allowance already." 

" Now, Jack, just listen to me and be 
reasonable. You know a great many 
of your friends have been very hospit- 
able to me : I could not return their 
hospitality myself, but I wish you to do 
so for me." 

" Well, father, I can do that without 
this money." 

" Now, Jack," said the Captain, push- 
ing forward the notes again, " I insist 
on your taking them. You will pain 

me very much if you don't take 

So the son took the notes at last, 
looking as most men of his age would 
if they had just lost them, while the 
father's face was radiant as he replaced 
his pocket-book in the breast-pocket 
inside his coat. His eye caught Tom's 
in the midst of the operation, and the 
latter could not help looking a little 
confused, as if he had been unintention- 
ally obtruding on their privacy. But 
the Captain at once laid his hand on his 
knee and said 

" A young fellow is never the worse 
for having a ten-pound note to veer and 
haul on ; eh, Mr. Brown ?" 

" No, indeed, sir. A great deal better 
I think," said Tom, and was quite com- 
fortable again. The Captain had no 
new coat that summer, but he always 
looked like a gentleman. 

Soon the coach stopped to take up a 
parcel at a cross-road, and the young 
men got down. They stood watching 
it until it disappeared round a corner of 
the road, and then turned back towards 
Oxford and struck into Bagley Wood, 
Hardy listening with evident pleasure 
to his friend's enthusiastic praise of his 
father. But he was not in a talking 
humour, and they were soon walking 
along together in silence. 

This was the first time they had been 
alone together since the morning after 
their reconciliation ; so presently Tom 
seized the occasion to recur to the sub- 
ject which was uppermost in his 

"She has never answered my letter," 
he began abruptly. 

" I'm very glad of it," said Hardy. 

"But why?" 

" Because you know you want it all 
broken off completely." 

" Yes ; but still she might have just 
acknowledged it. You don't know how 
hard it is to me to keep away from the 

" My dear fellow, I know it must be 
hard work, but you are doing the right 
thing." . 

Yes, I hope so," said Tom, with a 
"I haven't been within a hun- 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

dred yards of ' The Choughs ' this five 
days. The old lady must think at so 

Hardy made no reply. What could 
he say, but that no doubt she did ? 

" Would you mind doing me a great 
favour 1 " said Tom, after a minute. 

"Anything I can do. What is it?" 

" Why, just to step round on our way 
back, I will stay as far off as you like, 
and see how things are going on ; 
how she is." 

"Very well. Don't you like this 
view of Oxford? I always think it is 
the best of them all." 

" No. You don't see anything of half 
the colleges," said Tom, who was very 
loth to leave the other subject for the 

" But you get all the spires and tow- 
ers so well, and the river in the fore- 
ground. Look at that shadow of a cloud 
skimming over Christ Church Meadow. 
It's a splendid old place after all." 

" It may be from a distance, to an 
outsider," said Tom ; " but I don't 
know it's an awfully chilly, deadening 
kind of place to live in. There's some- 
thing in the life of the place that sits 
on me like a weight, and makes me feel 

" How long have you felt that 1 
You're coming out in a ne\v line." 

" I wish I were. I want a new line. 
I don't care a straw for cricket ; I hardly 
like pulling ; and as for those wine par- 
ties day after day, and suppers night 
after nigh?, they turn me sick to 
think of." 

"You have the remedy in your own 
hands, at any rate," said Hardy, smiling. 

" How do you mean ?" 

" Why, you needn't go to them." 

"Oh, one can't help going to them. 
What else is there to do?" 

Tom waited for an. answer, but his 
companion only nodded to show that he 
was listening, as he strolled on down the 
path, looking at the view. 

" I can say what I feel to you, Hardy. 
I always have been able, and it's such a 
comfort to me now. It was you who 
put these sort of thoughts into my head 
too, so you ought to sympathize with me." 

"I do, my dear fellow. But you'll 
be all right again in a few days." 

" Don't you believe it. It isn't only 
what you seem to think, Hardy. You 
don't know me' so well as I do you, 
after all. No, I'm not just love-sick, 
and "hipped because I can't go and see 
her. That has something to do with it, 
I dare say, but if s the sort of shut-up, 
selfish life we lead here that I can't 
stand. A man isn't meant to live only 
with fellows like himself, with good 
allowances paid quarterly, and no care 
but how to amuse themselves. One is 
old enough for something better than 
that, I'm sure." 

" No doubt," said Hardy, with provok- 
ing taciturnity. 

"And the moment one tries to break 
through it, one only gets into trouble." 

" Yes, there's a good deal of danger of 
that certainly," said Hardy. 

" Don't you often long to be in contact 
with some of the realities of life, with 
men and women who haven't their bread 
and butter all ready cut for them ? How 
can a p*lace be a University where no one 
can come up who hasn't two hundred a 
year or so to live on 1 " 

" You ought to have been at Oxford 
four hundred years ago, when there 
were more thousands here than we have 

" I don't see that. It must have been 
ten times as bad then." 

" Not at all. But it must have been a 
very different state of things from ours ; 
they must have been almost all poor 
scholars, who worked for their living, or 
lived on next to nothing." 

" How do you really suppose they 
lived though ? " 

" Oh, I don't know. But how should 
you like it now, if we had fifty poor 
scholars at St. Ambrose, besides us ser- 
vitors say ten tailors, ten shoemakers, 
and so on, who came up from love of 
learning, and attended all the lectures 
with us, and worked for the present 
undergraduates while they were hunting, 
and cricketing, and boating 1 " 

"Well, I think it would be a very- 
good thing At any rate, we should save 
in tailors' bills." 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


"Even if we didn't get our coats so 
well built," said Hardy, laughing. 
" Well, Brown, you have a most catho- 
lic taste, and ' a capacity for taking in 
new truths,' all the elements of a good 
Radical in you." 

" I tell you I hate Eadicals," said Tom 

" Well, here we are in the town. I'll 
go round by ' The Choughs ' and catch 
you up before you get to High Street." 

Tom, left to himself, walked slowly on 
for a little way, and then quickly back 
again in an impatient, restless manner, 
and was within a few yards of the cor- 
ner where they had parted when Hardy 
appeared again. He saw at a glance 
that something had happened. 

" What is it she is not ill ? " he said 

" No ; quite well, her aunt says." 

" You didn't see her then?" 

" No. The fact is she has gone home." 



ON the afternoon of a splendid day in 
the early part of June, some four or five 
days after the Sunday on which the 
morning service at Englebourn was in- 
terrupted by the fire at Farmer Grove's, 
David Johnson, tailor and constable of 
the parish, was sitting at his work, in a 
small erection, half shed, half summer- 
house, which leaned against the back of 
his cottage. Not that David had not 
a regular workshop with a window look- 
ing into the village street, and a regular 
counter close under it, on which passers- 
by might see him stitching, and from 
whence he could gossip with them easily, 
as was his wont. But although the 
constable kept the king's peace and 
made garments of all kinds for his live- 
lihood from the curate's frock down 
to the ploughboy's fustians he was ad- 
dicted for his pleasure and solace to the 
keeping of bees. The constable's bees 
inhabited a row of hives in the narrow 
strip of garden which ran away at the 
back of the cottage. This strip of garden 
was bordered along the whole of one side 

by the rector's premises. Now honest 
David loved gossip well, and considered 
it a part of his duty as constable to be well 
up in all events and rumours which hap- 
pened or arose within his liberties. But 
he loved his bees better than gossip, 
and, as he was now in hourly expecta- 
tion that they would be swarming, was 
working, as has been said, in his summer- 
house, that he might be at hand at the 
critical moment. The rough table on 
which he was seated commanded a view 
of the hives ; his big scissors and some 
shreds of velveteen lay near him on the 
table, also the street-door key and an old 
shovel, of which the uses will appear 

On his knees lay the black velveteen 
coat, the Sunday garment of Harry 
Winburn, to which he was fitting new 
sleeves. In his exertions at the top of 
the chimney in putting out the fire 
Harry had grievously damaged the gar- 
ment in question. The farmer had pre- 
sented him with five shillings on the 
occasion, which sum .was quite inade- 
quate to the purchase of a new coat, and 
Harry, being too proud to call the far- 
mer's attention to the special damage 
which he had suffered in his service, 
had contented himself with bringing his 
old coat to be new-sleeved. 

Harry was a favourite with the con- 
stable on account of his intelligence and 
independence, and because of his rela-, 
tions with the farmers of Englebourn on 
the allotment question. -Although by 
his office the representative of law and 
order in the parish, David was a man 
of the people, and sympathized with the 
peasantry more than with the farmers. 
He had passed some years of his appren- 
ticeship at Eeading, where he had picked 
up notions on political and social ques- 
tions much ahead of the Englebourn 
worthies. When he returned to his 
native village, being a wise man, he had 
kept his new lights in the back-ground, 
and consequently had succeeded in the 
object of his ambition, and had been 
appointed constable. His reason for 
seeking the post was a desire to prove 
that the old joke as to the manliness of 
tailors had no application to his case, 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

and this he had established to the satis- 
faction of all the neighbourhood by the 
resolute manner in which, whenever 
called on, he performed his duties. 
And, now that his character was made 
and his position secure, he was not so 
careful of betraying his leanings, and 
had lost some custom amongst the far- 
mers in consequence of them. 

The job on which he was employed 
naturally turned his thoughts to Harry. 
He stitched away, now weighing in his 
mind whether he should not go himself 
to farmer Grove, and represent to him 
that he ought to give Harry a new coat; 
now rejoicing over the fact that the 
Rector had decided to let Harry have 
another acre of the allotment land ; now 
speculating on the attachment of his 
favourite to the gardener's daughter, 
and whether he could do anything to 
forward his suit. In the pursuit of 
which thoughts he had forgotten all 
about his bees, when suddenly a great 
humming arose, followed by a rush 
through the air like the passing of an 
express train, which recalled him to 
himself. He jumped from the table, 
casting aside the coat, and,, seizing the 
key and shovel, hurried out into the 
garden, beating the two together with 
all his might. 

The process in question, known in 
country phrase as " tanging," is founded 
upon the belief that the bees will not 
settle unless under the influence of this 
peculiar music ; and the constable, hold- 
ing faithfully to the popular belief, rushed 
down his garden " tanging," as though 
his life depended upon it, in the hopes 
that the soothing sound would induce 
the swarm to settle at once on his own 
apple trees. 

Is " tanging " a superstition or not ? 
People learned in bees ought to know, 
but I never happened to meet one who 
had considered the question. It is 
curious how such beliefs or superstitions 
fix themselves in the popular mind of a 
country-side, and are held by wise and 
simple alike. David the constable was 
a most sensible and open-minded man 
of his time and class, but Kernble or 
Akerman, or other learned Anglo-Saxon 

scholar, would have vainly explained to 
him that "tang," is but the old word 
for "to hold," and that the object of 
"tanging" is, not to lure the bees with 
sweet music of key and shovel, but to 
give notice to the neighbours that they 
have swarmed, and that the owner of 
the maternal hive means to hold on 
to his right to the emigrants. David 
would have listened to the lecture with 
pity, and have retained unshaken belief 
in his music. 

In the present case, however, the 
tanging was of little avail, for the 
swarm, after wheeling once or twice in 
the air, disappeared from the eyes of 
the constable over the Rector's wall. 
He went on " tanging " violently for 
a minute or two, and then paused to 
consider what was to be done. Should 
he get over the wall into the Rector's 
garden at once, or should he go round 
and ask leave to carry his search into 
the parsonage grounds ? As a man and 
bee-fancier he was on the point of fol- 
lowing straight at once, over wall and 
fence ; but the constable was also strong 
within him. He was not on the best of 
terms with old Simon, the Rector's gar- 
dener, and his late opposition to Miss 
Winter in the matter of the singing 
also came into his mind. So he resolved 
that the parish constable would lose 
caste by disregarding his neighbour's 
boundaries, and was considering what 
to do next when he heard a footstep and 
short cough on the other side the wall 
which he recognised. 

" Be you there, Maester Simon 1 " he 
called out. Whereupon the walker on 
the other side pulled up, and after a 
second appeal answered shortly 


" HeVee seed ought o' my bees ? 
Thaay' ve a bin' and riz and gone off 
somweres athert the wall." 

" E'es, I seen em." 

" Wer* be em then?" 

" Aal-amang wi ourn in the Limes." 

" Aal-amang wi yourn," exclaimed 
the constable. "Drattle em. Thaay 
be niwore trouble than they be 

" I knowed as thaay wur yourn zoon 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 

as ever I sot eyes on ein," old Simon 
went on. 

"How did'ee know em then?" asked 
the constable. 

" Cause thine be a'al zettin' crass- 
legged," said Simon, with a chuckle. 
" Thee medst cum and pick em all out 
if thee'st a mind to V 

Simon was mollified by his own joke, 
and broke into a short, dry cachination, 
half laugh, half cough ; while the con- 
stable, who was pleased and astonished 
to find his neighbour in such a good 
humour, hastened to get an empty hive 
and a pair of hedger's gloves fortified 
with which he left his cottage and made 
the best of his way up street towards 
the rectory gate, hard by which stood 
Simon's cottage. The old gardener was 
of an impatient nature, and the effect of 
the joke had almost time to evaporate, 
and Simon was fast relapsing into his 
usual state of mind towards his neigh- 
bour before the latter made his appear- 

" Wher' hast been so long 1 " he ex- 
claimed, when the constable joined him. 
" I seed the young missus and t'other 
young lady a standin' talkin' afore the 
door," said David ; " so I stopped back, 
so as not to disturre 'em." 

" Be 'em gone in 1 Who was 'em 
talkin' to ? " 

" To thy missus, and thy daarter too, 
I b'lieve 'twas. Thaay be both at whoam, 
bean't 'em 1 " 

" Like enough. But what was 'em 
zayin' ? " 

" I couldn't heer nothin' partic'lar, 
but I judged as t'was summat about Sun- 
day and the fire." 

" 'Tis na use for thaay to go on fillin' 
our pleace wi ; bottles. I dwont mean 
to take any mwore doctor's stuff." 

Simon, it may be said, by the way, 
had obstinately refused to take any 
medicine since his fall, and had main- 
tained a constant war on the subject, 
both with his own women and with 
Miss Winter, whom he had impressed 
more than ever with a belief in his 

" Ah ! and how be 'ee, tho', Maester 
Simon?" said David; " I didn't mind to 

ax afore. You d won't feel no wus for 
your fall, I hopes ? " 

" I feels a bit stiffish like, and as if 
summat wus cuttin' in' at times, when I 
lifts up my arms." 

" 'Tis a mercy 'tis no wus," said David ; 
"we bean't so young nor so lissom as 
we was, Maester Simon." 

To which remark Simon replied by a 
grunt. He disliked allusions to his age 
a rare dislike amongst his class in that 
part of the country. Most of the people 
are fond of making themselves out older 
than they are, and love to dwell on their 
experiences, and believe, as firmly as the 
rest of us, that everything has altered 
for the worse in the parish and district 
since their youth. 

But Simon, though short of words 
and temper, and an uncomfortable ac- 
quaintance in consequence, was inclined 
to be helpful enough in other ways. 
The constable, with his assistance, had 
very soon hived his swarm of cross- 
legged bees. 

Then the constable insisted on Simon's 
coming with him and taking a glass of 
ale, which, after a little coquetting, 
Simon consented to do. So, after carry- 
ing his re-capture safely home, and 
erecting the hive on a three-legged 
stand of his own workmanship, he 
liastened to rejoin Simon, and the two 
soon found themselves together in the 
bar of the " Red Lion." 

The constable wished to make the 
most of this opportunity, and so began 
at once to pump Simon as to his inten- 
tions with regard to his daughter. But 
Simon was not easy to lead in any way 
whatever, and seemed in a more than 
usually no -business -of- yours line about 
his daughter. Whether he had any one 
in his eye for her or not, David could 
not make out; but one thing he did 
make out, and it grieved him much. 
Old Simon was in a touchy and un- 
friendly state of mind against Harry, 
who, he said, was falling into bad ways, 
and beginning to think much too much 
of his self. Why was he to be wanting 
more allotment ground than any one 
else ? Simon had himself given Harry 
some advice on the point, but not to 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

much purpose, it would seem, as lie 
summed up his notions on the subject 
by the remark that, "'Twas waste of 
soap to lather an ass." 

The constable now and then made a 
stand for his young friend, but very 
judiciously ; and, after feeling his way 
for some time, he came to the conclu- 
sion as, indeed, the truth was that 
Simon was jealous of Harry's talent for 
growing flowers, and had been driven 
into his present frame of mind at hear- 
ing Miss Winter and her cousin, talking 
about the flowers at Dame Winburn's 
under his very nose for the last four or 
five days. They had spoken thus to 
interest the old man, meaning to praise 
Harry to him. The fact was, that the 
old gardener was one of those men who 
never can stand hearing other people 
praised, and think that all such praise 
must be meant in depreciation of them- 

When they had finished their ale, the 
afternoon was getting on, and the con- 
stable rose to go back to his, work; while 
old Simon declared his intention of 
going down to the hay-field, to see how 
the mowing was getting on. He was 
sure that the hay would never be made 
properly, now that he couldn't be about 
as much as usuaL 

In another hour the coat was finished, 
and the constable, being uneasy in his 
mind, resolved to carry the garment 
home himself at once, and to have a talk 
with Dame Winburn. So he wrapped 
the coat in a handkerchief, put it under 
his arm, and set off" down the village. 

He found the dame busy with her 
washing ; and after depositing his parcel 
sat down on the settle to have a talk 
with her. They soon got on the subject 
which was always uppermost in her 
mind, her son's prospects, and she 
poured out to the constable her troubles. 
First there was this sweethearting after 
old Simon's daughter, not that Dame 
Winburn was going to say anything 
against her, though she might have her 
thoughts as well as other folk, and for 
her part she hiked to see girls that were 
fit for something besides dressing them- 
selves up like their betters, but what 

worrited her was to see how Harry took 
it to heart. He wasn't like himself, and 
she couldn't see how it was all to end. 
It made him fractious, too, and he was 
getting into trouble about his work. He 
had left his regular place, and was gone 
mowing with a gang, most of them men 
out of the parish that she knew nothing 
about, and likely not to be the best of 
company. And it was all very well in 
harvest time, when they could go and 
earn good Avages at mowing and reaping 
anywhere about, and no man could earn 
better than her Harry, but when it 
came to winter again she didn't see but 
what he might find the want of a regu- 
lar place, and then the farmers mightn't 
take him on ; and Jhis own land that he 
had got, and seemed to think so much 
of, mightn't turn out all he thought it 
would. And so in fact the old lady was 
troubled in her mind, and only made 
the constable more uneasy. He had a 
vague sort of impression that he was in 
some way answerable for Harry, who 
was a good deal with him, and was fond 
of coming about his place. And al- 
though his cottage happened to be next 
to old Simon's, which might account for 
the fact to some extent, yet the con- 
stable was conscious of having talked to 
his young friend on many matters in a 
way which might have unsettled him, 
and encouraged his natural tendency to 
stand up for his own rights and inde- 
pendence, and he knew well enough 
that this temper was not the one which 
was likely to keep a labouring man out 
of trouble in the parish. 

He did not allow his own misgivings, 
however, to add to the widow's troubles, 
but, on the contrary, cheered her by 
praising up Harry as much as ever she 
could desire, and prophesying that all 
would come right, and that those that 
lived would see her son as respected as 
any man in the parish, and he shouldn't 
be surprised if he were churchwarden 
before he died. And then, astonished at 
his own boldness, and feeling that he 
was not capable of any higher flight of 
imagination, the constable rose to take 
his leave. He asked where Harry was 
working, and, finding that he was at 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


mowing in the Danes' Close, set off to 
look after him. The kind-hearted con- 
stable could not shake off the feeling 
that something was going to happen to 
Harry which would get him into trouble, 
and he wanted to assure himself that as 
yet nothing had gone wrong. Whenever 
one has this sort of vague feeling about 
a friend, there is a natural and irresisti- 
ble impulse to go and look after him, 
and to be with him. 

The Danes' Close was a part of the 
glebe, a large field of some ten acres or 
so in extent, close to the village. Two 
footpaths ran across it, so that it was 
almost common property, and the village 
children considered it as much their 
playground as the green itself. They 
trampled the grass a good deal more 
than seemed endurable in the eyes of 
Simon, who managed the rector's farm- 
ing operations as well as the garden ; 
but the children had their own way, 
notwithstanding the threats he some- 
times launched at them. Miss Winter 
would have sooner lost all the hay than 
have narrowed their amusements. It 
was the most difficult piece of mowing 
in the parish, in consequence of the 
trarnplings and of the large crops it 
bore. The Danes, or some other un- 
known persons, had made the land fat, 
perhaps with ' their carcases, and the 
benefit had lasted to the time of our 
story. At any rate, the field bore 
splendid crops, and the mowers always 
got an extra shilling an acre for cutting 
it, by Miss Winter's special order, which 
was paid by Simon in the most ungra- 
cious manner, and with many grumblings 
that it was enough to ruin all the mowers 
in the countryside. 

As the constable got over the stile 
into the hayfield, a great part of his mis- 
givings passed out of his head. He 
was a simple kindly man, whose heart 
lay open to all influences of scene and 
weather, and the Danes' Close, full of 
life and joy and merry sounds, as seen 
Tinder the slanting rays of the evening 
sun, was just the place to rub all the 
wrinkles out of him. 

The constable, however, is not singu- 
lar in this matter. 

What man amongst us all, if he will 
think the matter over calmly and fairly, 
can honestly say that there is any one 
spot on the earth's surface in which he 
has enjoyed so much real, wholesome, 
happy life as in a hay-field ? He may 
have won renown on horseback or on, 
foot at the sports and pastimes in which 
Englishmen glory ; he may have shaken 
off all rivals, time after time, across the 
vales of Aylesbury, or of Berks, or any 
other of our famous hunting counties ; 
he may have stalked the oldest and 
shyest buck in Scotch forests, and killed 
the biggest salmon of the year in the 
Tweed, and troiit in the Thames; he 
may have made topping averages in 
first-rate matches at cricket ; or have 
made long and perilous marches, dear 
to memory, over boggy moor, or moun- 
tain, or glacier; he may have success- 
fully attended many breakfast-parties 
within drive of May Fair, on velvet 
lawns, surrounded by all the fairy land 
of pomp, and beauty, and luxury, which 
London can pour out ; he may have 
shone at private theatricals and at- 
homes ; his voice may have sounded 
over hushed audiences at St. Stephen's, 
or in the law courts; or he may have 
had good times in any other scenes of 
pleasure or triumph open to English- 
men; but I much doubt whether, on 
putting his recollections fairly and 
quietly together, he would not say at 
last that the fresh-mown hay -field is 
the place where he has spent the most 
hours which he would like to live over 
again, the fewest which he would wish 
to forget. 

As children, we stumble about the 
new-mown hay, revelling in the many 
colours of the prostrate grass and wild 
flowers, and in the power of tumbling 
where we please without hurting our- 
selves : as small boys, we pelt one 
another and the village school-girls and 
our nursemaids and young lad} r cousins 
with the hay, till, hot and weary, we 
retire to tea or syllabub beneath the 
shade of some great oak or elm stand- 
ing up like a monarch out of the fair 
pasture ; or, following the mowers, we 
rush with eagerness on .the treasures 


Tom Brown at Oxford, 

disclosed by the scythe-stroke, the nest 
of the unhappy late-laying titlark, or 
careless field-mouse : as big boys, we 
toil ambitiously with the spare forks 
and rakes, or climb into the wagons 
and receive with open arms the delicious 
load as it is pitched up from below, and 
rises higher and higher as we pass along 
the long lines of haycocks : a year or 
two later we are strolling there with pur 
first sweethearts, our souls and tongues 
loaded with sweet thoughts and soft 
speeches ; we take a turn with the 
scythe as the bronzed mowers lie in the 
shade for their short rest, and willingly 
pay our footing for the feat. Again, we 
come back with book in pocket, and our 
own children tumbling about as we did 
before them ; now romping with them, 
and smothering them with the sweet- 
smelling load now musing and reading 
and dozing away the delicious summer 
evenings. And so shall we not come 
back to the end, enjoying as grandfathers 
the lovemaking and the rompings of 
younger generations yet ? 

Were any of us ever really disap- 
pointed or melancholy in a hay-field ? 
Did we ever lie fairly back on a hay- 
cock and look up into the blue sky, and 
listen to the merry sounds, the whetting 
of scythes and the laughing prattle of 
women and children, and think evil 
thoughts of the world or our brethren ? 
Not we ! or if we have so done, we 
ought to be ashamed of ourselves, and 
deserve never to be out of town again 
during hay harvest. 

There is something in the -sights and 
sounds of a hay-field which seems to 
touch the same chord in one as Lowell's 
lines in the " Lay of Sir Launfal," which 

i' For a cap and bells our lives we pay ; 
" We wear out our lives with toiling 

and tasking ; 

" It is only Heaven that is given away ; 
" It is only God may be had for the 

" There is no price set on the lavish 


" And June may be had by the poorest 

But the philosophy of the hay-field 
remains to be written. Let us hope 
that whoever takes the subject in hand 
will not dissipate all its sweetness in 
the process of the inquiry wherein the 
charm lies. 

The constable had not the slightest 
notion of speculating on his own sensa- 
tions, but was very glad, nevertheless, 
to find his spirits rising as he stepped 
into the Danes' Close. All the hay was 
down, except a small piece in the fur- 
ther corner, which the mowers were 
upon. There were groups of children in 
many parts of the field, and women to 
look after them, mostly sitting on the 
fresh swarth, working and gossiping, 
while the little ones played about. He 
had not gone twenty yards before he 
was stopped by the violent crying of a 
child ; and, turning towards the voice, 
he saw a little girl of six or seven, who 
had strayed from her mother, scrambling 
out of the ditch, and wringing her hands 
in an agony of pain and terror. The 
poor little thing had fallen into a bed of 
nettles, and was very much frightened, 
and not a little hurt. The constable 
caught her up in his arms, soothing her 
as well as he could, and, hurrying along 
till he found some dock-leaves, sat down 
with her on his knee, and rubbed her 
hands with the leaves, repeating the old 

" Out nettle, 

" In dock : 

" Dock shall ha' 

" A new smock ; 

" Nettle shan't 

" Ha' narrun'." 

What with the rubbing, and the con- 
stable's kind manner, and listening to 
the doggrel rhyme, and feeling that nettle 
would get her deserts, the little thing 
soon ceased crying. But several groups 
had been drawn towards the place, and 
amongst the rest came Miss Winter and 
her cousin, who had been within hearing 
of the disaster. The constable began to 
feel very nervous and uncomfortable, 
when he looked up from his charitable 
occupation, and suddenly found the rec- 
tor's daughter close to him. But his 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 


nervousness was uncalled for. The sight 
of what he was about, and of the tender 
way in which he was handling the child, 
drove all remembrance of his heresies 
and contumaciousness in the matter of 
psalmody out of her head. She greeted 
him with frankness and cordiality, and 
presently when he had given up his 
charge to the mother, who was inclined 
at first to be hard with the poor little 
sobbing truant came up, and said she 
wished to speak a few words to him. 

David was highly delighted at Miss 
Winter's manner; but he walked along 
by her side not quite comfortable in his 
mind, for fear lest she should start the 
old subject of dispute, and then his duty 
as a public man would have to be done 
at all risk of offending her. He was 
much comforted when she began by 
asking him whether he had seen much 
of Widow Winburn's son lately. 

David admitted that he generally saw 
him every day. 

Did he know that he had left his place, 
and had quarrelled with Mr. Tester ? 

Yes, David knew that Harry had had 
words with Farmer Tester ; but Farmer 
Tester was a sort that it was very hard 
not to have words with. 

" Still, it is very bad, you know, for 
so young a man to be quarrelling with 
the farmers," said Miss Winter. 

" 'Twas the varmer as quarrelled wi' 
he ; you see, Miss," David answered, 
" which makes all the odds. He cum 
to Harry all in a fluster, and said as how 
he must drow up the land as he'd a' got, 
or he's place one or t'other on 'em. 
And so you see, Miss, as Harry wur 
kind o' druv to it. 'Twarn't likely as he 
wur to drow up the land now as he wur 
just reppin' the benefit ov it, and all for 
Variner Tester's place, wich be no sich 
gurt things, Miss, arter all." 

" Very likely not ; but I fear it may 
hinder his getting employment. The 
other farmers will not take him on now, 
if they can help it." 

" No ; thaay falls out wi' one another 
bad enough, and calls all manner o' 
names. But thaay can't abide a poor 
man to speak his mind, nor take his 
own part, not one on 'em," said David, 

looking at Miss Winter, as if doubtful 
how she might take his strictures ; but she 
went on, without any show of dissent, 

" I shall try to get him work for my 
father; but I am sorry to find that 
Simon does not seem to like the idea of 
taking him on. It is not easy always to 
make out Simon's meaning. When I 
spoke to him, he said something about a 
bleating sheep losing a bite ; but I should 
think this young man is not much of a 
talker in general 1 " she paused. 

" That's true, Miss," said David, ener- 
getically ; "there ain't a quieter spoken or 
steadier man at his work in the parish." 

" I'm very glad to hear you say so," 
said Miss Winter, " and I hope we may 
soon do something for him. But what 
I want you to do just now is to speak a 
word to him about the company he seems 
to be getting into." 

The constable looked somewhat aghast 
at this speech of Miss Winter's, but 
did not answer, not knowing to what 
she was alluding. She saw that he did 
not understand, and went on 

"He is mowing to-day with a gang 
from the heath and the next parish ; I. 
am sure they are very bad men for him 
to be with. I was so vexed when I 
found Simon had given them the job; 
but he said they would get it all down 
i i a day, and be done with it, and that 
was all he cared for." 

"And 'tis a fine day's work, Miss, for 
five men," said David, looking over the 
field; "and 'tis good work too, you 
mind the swarth else," and he picked 
up a handful of the fallen grass to show 
her how near the ground it was cut. 

" Oh, yes, I have no doubt they are 
very good mowers, but they are not good 
men, I'm sure. There, do you see now 
who it is that is bringing them beerl 
I hope you will see Widow Winburn's 
son, and speak to him, and try to keep 
him out of bad company. We should 
be all so sorry if he were to get into 

David promised to do his best, and 
Miss Winter wished him good evening, 
and rejoined her cousin. 

" Well, Katie, will he do your 
behest ? " 


Tom Brown at Oxford. 

" Yes, indeed ; and I think he is the 
best person to do it. Widow Winburn 
thinks her son minds him more than 
any one." 

" Do you know I don't think it will 
ever go right. I'm sure she doesn't care 
the least for him." 

"Oh, you have only just seen her 
once to-day for two or three minutes." 

" And then, that wretched old Simon 
is so perverse about it," said the cousin. 
" You will never manage him." 

"He is very provoking, certainly; 
but I get my own way generally, in 
spite of him. And it is such a perfect 
plan, isn't it ? " 

" Oh ! charming, if you can only 
bring it about." 

" Now we must be really going home, 
papa will be getting restless." So the 
young ladies left the hay-field deep in 
castle-building for Harry Winburn and 
the gardener's daughter, Miss Winter 
being no more able to resist a tale of 
true love than her cousin, or the rest of 
her sex. They would have been more 
or less than women if they had not 
taken an interest in so absorbing a 
passion as poor Harry's. By the time 
they reached the Rectory Gate they had 
installed him in the gardener's cottage 
with his bride, and mother, (for there 
would be plenty of room for the widow, 
and it would be so convenient to have 
the laundry close at hand) and had 
pensioned old Simon, and sent him and 
his old wife to wrangle away the rest of 
their time in the widow's cottage. 
Castle-building is a delightful and harm- 
less exercise. 

Meantime David the constable had 
gone towards the mowers, who were 
taking a short rest before finishing off 
the last half acre which remained stand- 
ing. The person whose appearance had 
so horrified Miss Winter was drawing 
beer for them from a small barrel This 
was an elderly raw-boned woman with 
a skin burnt as brown as that of any of 
the mowers. She wore a man's hat and 
spencer, and had a strong harsh voice, 
and altogether was not a prepossessing 
person. She went by the name of 
Daddy Cowell in the parish, and had 

been for years a proscribed person. She 
lived up on the heath, often worked in 
the fields, took in lodgers, and smoked 
a short clay pipe. These eccentricities, 
when added to her half-male clothing, 
were quite enough to account for the 
sort of outlawry in which she lived. 
Miss Winter, and other good people of 
Englebourn, believed her capable of any 
crime, and the children were taught to 
stop talking and playing, and run away 
when she came near them ; but the 
constable, who had had one or two 
search warrants to execute in her house, 
and had otherwise had frequent occasions 
of getting acquainted with her in the course 
of his duties, had by no means so evil 
an opinion of her. He had never seen 
much harm in her, he had been heard 
to say, and she never made pretence to 
much good. Nevertheless, David was 
by no means pleased to see her acting 
as purveyor to the gang which Harry 
had joined. He knew how such contact 
would damage him in the eyes of all 
the parochial respectabilities, and was 
anxious to do his best to get him clear 
of it. 

With these views he went up to the 
men, who were resting under a large elm 
tree, and complimented them on their 
day's work. They were themselves well 
satisfied with it, and with one another. 
When men have had sixteen hours or 
so hard mowing in company, and none 
of them can say that the others have 
not done their fair share, they are apt 
to respect one another more at the end 
of it. It was Harry's first day with 
this gang, who were famous for going 
about the neighbourhood, and doing 
great feats in hay and wheat harvest. 
They were satisfied with him and he 
with them, none the less so probably 
in his present frame of mind, because 
they also were loose on the world, 
servants of no regular master. It was 
a bad time to make his approaches, the 
constable saw ; so, after sitting by Harry 
until the gang rose to finish off their 
work ia the cool of the evening, and 
asking him to come round by his cottage 
on his way home, which Harry promised 
to do, he walked back to the village. 
To be continued. 



THE long night-watch is over ; fresh and 

Conies in the air of morn ; he slumbers 

Each hour more calm his laboured 

breathings grew. 

" God ! may he awaken free from ill ; 
May this supreme repose dear life re- 

She rose, and to the casement came, 
The curtain drew, and blank, grey 


Looked pitiless on eyes grief- worn, 
On the dying lamp's red, flickering 

And, slowly through the wavering 


Searching out the shaded room, 
Fell on a form the pillowed head 
So motionless, supinely laid. 
O, was it death, or trance, or sleep, 
Had power his sense thus locked to 

keep ? 
She turned, that woman wan and 


She gazed through tears, yet hope-be- 

He was her son, her first-born child, 
Ah, hush ! she may not weep. 

Many a night, with patient eye, 
Had she watched him sight of woe ! 
Fever-chained, unconscious lie ; 
Many a day passed heavily, 
Since met in glad expectancy 
Eound the cheerful hearth below 
Young and old, a goodly show, 
To welcome from the wondrous main, 
Their wanderer home returned again. 
The father's careful brow unbent, 
The mother happily intent 
That nothing should be left undone 
To greet him best ; the youngest one 
In childish, bright bewilderment, 
Longed, curious, to look upon 
Her own, strange sailor-brother sent 
Afar, before she could remember ; 

While elder sons and daughters 

What change in the playmate un- 


Time and foreign skies had wrought. 
Could he be like that fair-haired boy, 
With curly hair of golden hue, 
And merry-twinkling eye of blue, 
Whose tones were musical with joy 1 
For he had sailed all round the world, 
In China's seas our flag unfurled, 
On Borneo's coast with pirates fought, 
From famed spice-islands treasure 

^ Had been where the Upas grew ! 

But the long June day was closing 


And yet he did not come ; 
And anxious looks and murmurs 


Some gazed without, sate listless some ; 
Down the hill-side, across the vale, 
Night-mists are rising, sweeps the 

But nought can we see through the 

gloom ; 

When, hark ! a step at the wicket-gate, 
, And the brothers rushed out with 

call and shout. 

Welcome, at last, though late ! 
And round him hurriedly they press, 
And bring him in to the warm-lit 

To his mother's fond caress. 

" But how is this ? dear son, thy lips are 

pale ; 
And thy brow burneth, and thy speech 

doth fail. 
Hath some sore sickness thus thy frame 

Or sinkest thou for want of food and 

"All's well I am at home ; but make 

my bed soon, 
For I am weary, mother, and fain would 

lay me down." 


Airs Well. 

Even while he spake, he tottered, fell ; 

The heavy lid reluctantly 

Shrouded the glazing, love-strained 

They tenderly raised him ; who may 

What anguish theirs ? That smothered 


They "bore him up the narrow stair ; 
They laid him on his bed with care ; 
On snowy pillow, flower-besprent, 
(Ah ! for lighter slumber meant.) 
They knew some pestilential blight 
Lurked in his blood with deadly 


And they trembled for the morrow. 
Thus in the smitten house that night, 
All joy was changed to sorrow. 

Yea, swift and near, the fever-fiend 
Had dogged the mariner's homeward 


One ocean south, one ocean north, 
The ship from red Lymoon sailed 

But fast in her hold the dark curse 


In vain blew the cool west-wind. 
"Week after week, he now, in vain, 
Had breathed his pleasant native air ; 
For still with restless, burning brain, 
He seemed to toss on a fiery main, 
'Neath a sky of copper glare. 
Under his window a sweet-briar grew, 
And fragrance his boyhood full well 


In at the open lattice flung ; 
The thrush in his own old pear-tree 


Young voices from the distance borne, 
Or mower's scythe at dewy morn, 
Cock's shrill crowing, all around 
Sweet familiar scent or sound, 
None could bring his spirit peace ; 
None from wandering dreams release. 
He heard an angry surf still thunder, 
Crashing planks beneath him sunder, 
Tumults that, ever changing, never 


" Look, look ! what glides and glitters in 

the brake 1 
Is it a panther, or green crested snake ? 

Ah ! cursed Malay I see his cruel eye ; 
His hissing arrows pierce me 1 Must I lie, 
Weltering in torture on this hell-hot 

brine ; 
Not one cool drop my parching throat* 

to slake 1 
Jesu have mercy ! what a fate is mine ! " 

Yet ever his mother's yearning gaze, 
Saintly sad, was on him dwelling ; 
Could it not penetrate the haze 
Of phantasy, and, frenzy-quelling 
In heart and brain, soft-healing flow ? 
His sister came with noiseless tread, 
And, bending o'er the sufierer's bed, 
Lightly laid her smooth, cold palm 
Upon the throbbing brow ; 
And with the touch a gradual calm 
Stole quietly, diffusing slow 
Sleep's anguish-soothing balm. 
Pain's iron links, a little while 
Eelaxing, let his spirit rove 
In vision some Atlantic isle, 
Where waved the tall Areca palm ; 
Fresh breezes fanned, and gushing 


Murmured, as in green English grove 
They, winding, deepen from the hills. 
And momentary smiled, perchance, 
Dear faces thro' the shadowy trance, 
His unclosed eye saw not, though 

near ; 
Dear voices reached the spell-bound 


His waking sense had failed to hear. 
Only a little space too soon 
The fiery scourge, from slumber burst, 
Swept like the tyrannous typhoon, 
Gathering new rage, the last the 


Till the pulse ebbed low, and life 
Shrank wasted from the strife. 

At length a dreamless stupor deep 
Fell on him, liker death than sleep. 
At eve the grave physician said : 
" No more availeth human aid ; 
Nature will thus his powers restore, 
Or else he sleeps to wake no more." 
Alone his mother watched all night, 
In silent agony of prayer. 
When dimly gleamed the dawning light, 
She thought, "Its ghastly, spectral 

Airs Well. 


Makes his hue so ashen white." 
But, when broadening day shone 


Froze to despair her shivering dread. 
None who have seen that leaden mask 
Over loved features greyly spread, 
" Whose superscription this 1 " need 


Soft she unclosed the door, and said, 
" Come," in whisper hoarse and low ; 
And silently they came, 
One by one, the same 
Who had joyous met by the hearth 


Only three short weeks ago. 
They looked, " Is it life, or death?" 
She beckoned them in, and, with 

hushed breath 

Standing around, they saw dismayed 
That living soul already laid 
The shadow of the grave beneath. 

Kneeling beside his hope, his pride, 
Felled in youth's prime, his sea-worn 


Aloud the reverend father cried : 
"Submissive, Lord, we bow ; Thy will be 

done ; 
Yet grant some token ere my child 

Thy love hath ever dwelt within his 

And through the vale of darkness safe 

will guide." 
"Amen, amen," in faltering response 


Mother and children, watchers woe- 

mournful vigils, lingering long ! 
agonies of hope, that wrong 
Solemn prayer for swift release, 
And the soul's eternal peace ! 
Now holy calm, now wild desire 
With sick suspense alternate tire, 
Till very consciousness must cease. 
Faint the reluctant hours expire ; 
The mind flows back ; as in a dream 
Trivial imaginations stream 
Over the blank of grief, 
Bringing no relief. 

Haply some sudden sound without 
A sheep-dog's bark, or schoolboy's 

No. 9. VOL. ii. 

Or careless whistler passing near 
May, unaware, pierce the dull ear, 
And feeble, mystic wonder wake, 
And straight the web of fancy break ; 
The awful Presence over all 
Hovering unseen, a brooding pall. 
" 0, look ! what change is there 1 can 

hope revive ? 

Lift his head gently, give him air " 

As drive 

Strong winds through a thunder-cloud, 

and shear 

Athwart, on either side, its blackness, 
Sweeping the empyrean clear ; 
So, from the stony visage rent, 
Instantaneously withdrew 
The heaviness, the livid hue ; 
And the inward spirit shining 


Serene, ethereal brightness lent. 
His eyes unclosed ; their gaze intent 
No narrow, stifling limits saw, 
No aspects blanched by love and awe 
Far, far on the eternal bent. 
Hark ! from his lips the seaman's 


Sudden, deep-thrilling, did they hear, 
" Land ahead ! " The words of welcome 

rose ; 
Then he sank back in isolate repose. 

What land 1 say, thou tempest- tost ! 
Whither hath thy worn bark drifted, 
Seest thou thine own dear, native 


Vision by strong desire uplifted 
Britain's white cliffs afar appearing ; 
Or art thou not, full surely, nearing 
That unknown strand, that furthest 


Whence wanderer never saileth more ? 
But hush ! again he speaks with sted- 

fast tone, 
" Let go the, anchor." Now, the port is 


happy mariner ! at last, 
Ocean storms and perils past, 
Past treacherous rock and shelving 


And the ravening breakers' roll, 
Securely moored in haven blest, 
Thy weary soul hath found its rest, 
Touching now the golden strand ! 
Before thee lies the promised land, 



My Friend Mr. Bedlow : 

To- thy raptured eyes revealed 
(Eyes on earth for ever sealed). 
Eternity's reflected splendour 
Transfigure th the hollow brow; 
And the shattered hull must render, 
Landed, the free spirit now. 
Wayfarers we, on a homeless sea, 
Bid thee not return, delay ; 
But oh ! one word of parting say ! 

Sweet, solemn, full, those final accents 

Pledge of undying peace : he spake, 

"AM* well." 

Yea, all is well ; that last adieu 
Opened Paradise to view ; 
While, on tremulous passing sigh, 
The happy spirit floated by. 
O'er mourning hearts in anguish 


Effluence ecstatic gushed ;, 
They saw Heaven's gates of pearl un- 
Paven courts of purest gold, 

The glorious city on a height 

Lost in distances of light ; 

Heard angelic harpings sweet, 

Voices jubilant, that greet 

New comers through the floods of 

death ; 

Felt softly blow a passing breath 
Celestial, the winnowings 
Viewless of ethereal wings. 
This could not last for mortal strain, 
Transport sinking down to pain*; 
Yet a refulgent glimpse of Heaven, 
Never by cloud or storm-blast riven, 
Ray from love divine, shall dwell 
On all who heard that last farewell 
Sweet, faint echoes, never dying, 
Of far homes immortal tell, 
Where sorrows cease, and tears and 

sighing ; 
Still whispering: "All is well, is 


H. L. 




BE so good as to transport yourself in 
time backward for rather more than 
twenty years, and in space westward as 
far as New Haven. 

What New Haven ? 

There is one place, if not more, of the 
name in England ; possibly others in 
Scotland and Ireland; but the New 
Haven I mean is half the capital of the 
state of Connecticut. 

Half the capital? 

Literally so. It divides the honour 
of being the state metropolis with Hart- 
ford, and the state legislature meets- in 
each city alternately. 

New Haven has the reputation, and 
justly so, of being a very pretty place. 
I have sometimes compared it to the 
environs of Cheltenham, mutatis mu- 
tandis, which in this case must be trans- 
lated, substituting wooden houses for stone 

ones; not a very good comparison, but the 
best that occurs. It is one of the few 
cities in the world where birds fly and 
bees hum at large in the streets. Two 
long avenues, crossing each other at 
right angles, contain the book-stores 
(Anglicb booksellers) and the grocery- 
stores, and all the other " stores," and 
the hotels and principal boarding- 
houses all the business of the place, 
in fact ; and the remaining streets are 
occupied, not by the " upper ten " exactly 
in the time we write of, Willis had 
not yet invented the upper ten, but by 
private dwellings almost exclusively ; 
neat little white wooden houses, cot- 
tages you might call them, and much 
" greenery " all about, and the birds and 
bees aforesaid ; altogether, a very good 
specimen of the rus in urbe. 

Such was it at the period of which I 

Or, Reminiscences of American College Life. 


write. Since then it has not entirely 
escaped the progress of modern improve- 
ment. It has big brown stone " stores," 
and stone or imitation of it private 
houses, and a more ambitious look gene- 
rally. It is said that there are young 
ladies who waltz ; perhaps there are even 
fast horses. But in the year 183 it 
was a truly unsophisticated, country -like 
place, at least half a century behind New 
York in all the externals of material 

It is not, however, the place that you 
are to notice at all, but its inhabitants, 
or rather a very small portion, numeri- 
cally speaking, of its inhabitants the 
five hundred students of Yale College. 
Five hundred we may call them in round 
numbers, including the graduate profes- 
sional students, not a great multitude, 
but they are conspicuous enough every- 
where, notwithstanding the absence of 
any academical costume. The difference 
between "town" and "gown" is always 
strongly marked, even when the " gown" 
has no gown. The bursch may wear no 
beard, or cap, or other peculiar mark, yet 
he is never to be mistaken for the 
philister. The greenest "fresh" at Yale 
may be distinguished with half an eye 
from the " town-loafer." 

Suppose it then to be a fine spring 
noon ; let us walk down this long street, 
which extends from the college to the 
post-office. The municipal authorities, 
wise without knowing it, have placed 
the latter at a considerable distance from 
the former ; else it is to be feared that 
many of the students would never take 
any exercise at all. The Yalensiaris are 
great correspondents, and great devourers 
of newspapers ; and,, the postman being 
an institution quite unknown to New 
Haven, they are forced to fetch and carry 
for themselves ; besides, this is the 
fashionable promenade of the town, so 
we are sure to meet many parties and 
groups of these youths* They are about 
the average age of English upper-form 
public schoolboys^ for they usually enter 
at fifteen, and "go out," as a .Gantab 
would call it " graduate," as they call 
it at nineteen. They are not quite the ' 
average size of the schoolboys aforesaid^ 

for they grow later and longer ; but, in 
spite of this, they have ten times more 
the air of men. Not finer specimens of 
animal development ; we have just re- 
marked that they do ; not attain their full 
growth so soon, nor, on the other hand, 
do I mean that they show any signs of 
premature dissipation ; but they have a 
self-possessed, at-their-ease, independent^ 
don' t-care - a - monosyllable - for - anybody, 
air, that it would be hard to match among 
the youth of any other country, not ex- 
cepting those of France, who are sup- 
posed to be particularly forward, and, hi 
some respects, are so. Take at random 
any three of these young men (they 
would be fearfully insulted if you were 
to call them boys), the odds are that 
you may set up one of the three with- 
out warning before fifteen hundred men, 
and he will extemporize them a speech 
about things in general and the politics 
of the country in particular. Or he will 
charge a drawing-room full of ladies with 
equal gallantry ; only then you must not 
take him altogether without preparation ; 
he must have time to make his most ela- 
borate toilette otherwise he would be 
disconcerted indeed. 

For dress is rather a vanity of these 
youths, as you may see at a very super- 
ficial glance. They have small feef, and 
are proud of them, to judge from the deli- 
cate, lady-like boots they wear. Most of 
them sport kid gloves, and some of thenv 
light kid gloves. Many of them delight 
in fancy caps, as being more picturesque, 
and at the same time more convenient, 
than the common domestic hat. Their 
dress appears to be got up on what 
some one calls the Frenchman's theory 
of dress, a combination of colours ; 
and they have also a continental, or, if 
you prefer it, a flash tendency in the 
matter of chains, pins, and studs. If 
it had been a month or two earlier in 
the season, you would have seen most 
of them enveloped in magnificent full- ; 
circle blue cloth cloaks, at v least 12 
worth of cloth and velvet to each 
cloak It must be observed, however, / 
that these melodramatic envelopes were ' 
preferred to overcoats on grounds of 
use as well as show. In their hurried 

Q 2 


My Friend Mr. Bedlow : 

preparation for the very early morning 
chapel, the students not unfrequently 
donned an old dressing-gown, in lieu of 
coat, and entirely neglected the minor 
details of cravat and waistcoat, the 
charitable mantle supplying all defi- 
ciencies of looks or warmth. 

But these elegant youths do not com- 
prise the whole body of Yalensians. 
Contrasted with them we remark many 
students of a very different type. Men 
old men, comparatively speaking say 
from twenty-four to thirty years of age ! 
Their attire is not only unfashionable, 
but positively shabby. Coats of " home- 
made " cloth, threadbare and rusty, worn 
to holes at the cuffs, and strangely 
bound there with velvet, the attempt 
at converting a patch into an ornament 
only making the poverty of the gar- 
ment more conspicuous, cowhide shoes, 
"shocking bad" hats, coarse linen, of 
doubtful whiteness. These are the 
"beneficiaries," the students who have 
taken to the ministry late in life. You 
might compare them to the small- 
college fellow-commoners at Cambridge, 
with this important difference, that 
whereas the latter are wealthy, the 
"beneficiaries" are much the reverse. 
Indeed, they derive their popular name 
from the pecuniary benefit which they 
receive from the college. Various 
charitable legacies and donations give 
them about \ 5 a year each, and that is 
all the actual cash some of them can 
depend upon. Now, though New Haven 
is not a dear place, still a man can 
hardly well board himself there for less 
than two dollars that is, about eight 
shillings a week. It is evident, there- 
fore, that some other means must be 
resorted to to make up the deficit. 
Some beneficiaries absent themselves 
during a portion of the winter to teach 
schools, their own studies necessarily 
suffering meantime. One of them rings 
the college bell (he earns his money, 
poor fellow !). Some of them sleep in 
little closets adjoining the " recitation " 
(lecture) rooms, and get their lodging 
gratis in return for keeping the said 
recitation-rooms in order. Several of 
them wait on the other students in hall, 

and for so doing get their own meals 
free of expense. Cambridge sizars 
used to do the same thing : the prac- 
tice has continued in democratic Ame- 
rica long after it was abolished in 
aristocratic England ; for all I know to 
the contrary, it exists in full force to 
the present day. 

Are you curious to know how these 
men are treated by their fellow-students ? 
They mingle on terms of perfect equality, 
but their intercourse is far from being 
perfectly genial. Not on account of the 
beneficiaries' poverty, nor yet altogether 
from the difference of age, though that 
has something to do with it ; but rather 
owing to unfortunate theological differ- 
ences, of which more hereafter. Before 
the "faculty" that is, the college autho- 
rities they all stand on a par. Indeed, if 
there were any preference to be shown, 
the beneficiaries would most naturally 
come in for it, since the tutor has 
nothing possible to expect from the 
rich student, whom the chances are he 
will never see when the latter has once 
left college, whereas he feels a strong 
sympathy for the poor student, having, 
in perhaps the majority of cases, sprung 
from that class himself. 

When speaking of dress and orna- 
ments just above, we omitted one kind 
of ornament common to all the stu- 
dents, though the beneficiaries are rather 
less adorned in this way than the others. 
You perceive that a large number, pro- 
bably full half, of them, wear queer 
trinkets of gold, or gold and enamel, 
inscribed with Greek letters and various 
quaint devices. Some of them are 
broad, flat, old-fashioned watch-keys j 
others are triangles, stars, or suns, used 
as " charms," or breloques ; others heavy 
embossed rings, and others again breast- 
pins ; the shapes and devices of the 
breastpins are the most ferociously 
mystic of all. These are the badges of 
the secret societies which swarm in 
every American college. They have 
different origins, different professed aims, 
and very different degrees of secrecy. 
Some scarcely profess to conceal their 
proceedings from the outsiders, while 
others shroud themselves in thickest 

Or, Reminiscences of American College Life. 


mystery. One society was a sort of 
appendix to academic honours, being 
composed of all who took a certain 
standing in the junior (third) year. 
Another was supposed to be made up of 
the best "speakers" and "writers," 
especially the latter ; candidates for the 
editorship of the magazines, and gainers 
of " composition " prizes English com- 
position, not Latin ; though, for that 
matter, if you were otherwise unob- 
jectionable, writing Latin would qualify 
you at a pinch almost as well as writing 
English : it certainly was the rarer 
accomplishment of the two. Others 
these were the breastpins generally 
limited their numbers to a very select 
few, in the choice of whom personal 
considerations were presumed to weigh 
no less than literary. These were 
awfully mysterious. One of them, the 
awe and admiration of all freshmen, 
had a most ferocious pin, with a piratical 
device of a death's head and cross- 
bones, and a live skeleton I was going 
to say, I mean a real one, in a corner of 
the room where it met, and an unuttera- 
ble name (like that of Ancient Rome) 
known only to the initiated. To belong 
to this chib was a great object of am- 
bition, and its principle of selection 
seemed to be that two-thirds of its 
members were about the cleverest and 
j oiliest fellows of their year, and the 
other third gentlemanly nobodies of some 
pecuniary means. In spite of all precau- 
tions and freemasonry, there was sufficient 
leakage to make one conclude that the basis 
of all these associations was the same 
what we may call the great motive prin- 
ciple of an American college speaking 
and writing, writing and speaking ; 
while on this the more aristocratic 
breastpins had crossed the popular 
Anglo-Saxon institution of grub, with 
the necessary concomitant of something 
to drink, which made the breastpins 
more expensive ; and on this account, as 
well as some others, they admitted few 
"beneficiaries;" but some of these forced 
their way even into the piratical sanc- 
tuary for talent, or what passes for 
such, is a great leveller of distinctions 
in a transatlantic university. The less 

ostensible badges, such as rings and 
bracelets (I assure you I am not joking; 
there were students who wore bracelets 
in my time), generally betokened mere 
symposia, like the B. S. club at Cam- 
bridge, which, with its lettered buttons, 
is the only approach to the American 
system my English experience supplies 
me with. But, reader ! whom I 
always take somehow to be a Cantab 
try and realize this phenomenon at your 
own alma mater the Johnian scholars 
wearing oblong watch-keys, the " Athe- 
naeum " men star breloques, the " apo- 
stles " enamelled breastpins with an 
allegorical design of Goethe trampling 
on the Record, even the dozen Trinity 
bachelors who meet in one another's 
rooms on Sunday night to drink coffee 
and read Shakespeare (if that informal 
association still exists), setting up a ring 
of some peculiar form. A very ridi- 
culous state of things, you would say ; 
and my private opinion about coincides 
with yours. Every possible club, or 
combination of Yalensians, had its badge, 
save only the three great debating socie- 
ties, called par excellence the literary 
societies, to one of which every member 
of the university belonged, and which, 
probably for that reason, had no decora- 
tion peculiar to them. 1 

And now, even though my friend Bill 
Bedlow is waiting all this time to be 
introduced to you, I must go back a 
little to say something that might per- 
haps have come in more d propos of the 
big cloaks and the early chapels. When 
you see this heterogeneous mass of boys 
and men doubly heterogeneous, for 
they come from all parts of the Union, 
scarcely a state unrepresented, and from 
all sorts of schools, or no schools at all, 
one of the first questions that naturally 
occurs to you is, by what discipline are 

1 Even, these made a parade of secrecy, 
allowing no strangers to be present at their 
debates, and admitting new members with 
much formality and a Christy 's-ininstrel-like 
" knocking at the door." It is singular that, 
with all this preparatory training to secrecy, 
when they get into real life no people let out 
political secrets so readily as the Americans. 
Perhaps it is merely a case of " diamond cut 


My Friend Mr. Bedlow : 

these students kept in order, or is there 
any pretence of keeping them in order ? 
According to your own ideas and expe- 
rience, the system will be apt to strike 
you as a singular mixture of laxity and 
sternness; but, on further consideration, 
you will probably be convinced that it 
is not only the most natural, but the 
only possible one, o 

First, then, there are no such things 
known as walls or gates in the estab- 
lishment. To "gate"* or "wall" a re- 
fractory student would be simply impos- 
sible, for want of the material masonry. 
There is indeed a law that no one shall be 
out of his room after ten P.M., but it is as 
obsolete as those English college statutes 
.which provide for the flogging of fresh- 
men in chapel, or their not. walking 
alone on Sundays. The primitive hours 
of the old gentlemen and ladies who 
let lodgings may be supposed to put 
some check on any noctivagant propen- 
sities of their lodgers ; but for those 
students who "room" in college more 
than half the whole number there 
really is no let or hindrance to their 
passing the night out, any night and 
avery night of the week, if they choose. 
But on the other hand, there is a 
most rigid system of roll-call and muster. 
To put it into Cantab phraseology, the 
.Yalensians have to keep sixteen chapels 
and sixteen lectures a week, and that 
during three terms, which take up full 
three-quarters of the entire year, instead 
of less than one-half of it Yale, like 
almost all the American colleges, has 
its particular religion. It belonged to 
.the Congregationalists, a species of demo- 
cratic Presbyterians, answering, I be- 
lieve, to the English Independents. 
The Episcopalians are allowed to go to 
their own church on Sundays, but even 
there the monitor pursues them. And 
suppose a student fails to attend? In 
that case the process is sufficiently 
euinmary. A certain, not very large, 
number of " absent" marks say thirty 
in the course of the year involves 
your polite dismission from the institu- 
tion, no matter how high your moral 
or intellectual standing. 

There would have been a great 

slaughter of the innocents under this 
system, but for a little elasticity in the 
practical working of it. The sole ex- 
cuse for absence was illness ; the test 
of illness was keeping your room, the 
proof of your having kept your room 
was your word for it, unless you were 
stupid enough to run bolt against a 
tutor. But without supposing any 
direct violation of truth, there were 
many cold winter days when to stay 
in doors for twenty-four hours was no 
great hardship, and the sick man could 
always find some friend to bring him 
his meals. 

Disturbances of so grave a character 
that the "faculty" are compelled to 
notice them, occur very rarely. In such 
cases the offenders are usually " sus- 
pended," i.e. rusticated, for a term or 
longer. Expulsion is sometimes re- 
sorted to, pour encourager les autres. 
Sometimes a whole class, or the greater 
part of one, rebels, generally for some 
such silly reason as, that the " recita- 
tions" in plain English the lessons are 
too long On such occasion a number 
of the recalcitrant youth are apt to expel 
themselves, and the authorities have a 
habit of sending the "balance" after them 
for the sake of symmetry. 

Now then, having duly prepared the 
way for the introduction of so important 
a person, let me present to your notice, 
Mr. William Bedlow, or Bill Bedlow, as 
his intimate friends, like myself, are 
permitted to call him, notwithstanding 
his dignified carriage. 

"Mr. Bedlow, of New York" that 
is the legitimate manner of introducing 
him forms the central figure of the 
group standing in front of that not 
very magnificent confectioner's across 
the way. Mr. Bedlow is between nine- 
teen and twenty years of age you cer- 
tainly would not take him to be a day 
older, and you might very well take 
him to be a year or two younger. His 
stature rather above medium height; 
his figure slender, denoting activity 
rather than strength. His features are 
delicate, and decidedly handsome, and 
his black hair has a tendency to curl 
under the rakish silk-tasselled cap that 

Or, Reminiscences of American College Life.- 


is pitched on one side of his head. 
No moustache of course : that was as 
rare an article under the presidency of 
Martin Von Buren as under the premier- 
ship of Lord Melbourne. His toilette 
is " got up to kill," as the slang phrase 
goes his broad shirt collar turns down 
over a black satin cravat ; his frock- 
coat is dark-olive, with fancy silk but- 
tons, and a velvet collar. 

Bill's waistcoat is a wonderful affair: 
delicately blended shades of straw- 
colour, salmon-colour, and pearl-grey ; 
he had it made last summer, when he 
was manager of the Commencement ball ; 
the nine managers bought the whole 
piece of waistcoating, to appropriate it 
to themselves. His pantaloons (re- 
member, Ave are in America for.the nonce, 
and must talk American) are French- 
grey ; his feet, as small as a woman's, 
are cased in thin seal-skin boots, with 
very high heels ; one of his hands 
which, if not quite so small as a woman's, 
are nearly as white is carefully fitted 
into a pearl-coloured kid, the other is 
bare, probably to show a large embossed 
ring, the badge of one of his societies. 
Various other badges are plastered over 
his waistcoat and shirt-front. 

After this detail, you may perhaps 
express your opinion, that Mr. Bedlow 
looks like a guy, Not improbably he 
does so to you. I can only say we 
used to think him a very handsome 
fellow, and no end of a swell. You may 
perhaps also think (I am aware he is 
open to criticism in many ways) that he 
has an effeminate look. And, when I 
complete the picture by making you 
observe that he is eating a paper of 
candy, positive sugar-candy, which he 
has just bought at the confectioner's 
behind him, you will be still more likely 
to think so. Nevertheless, before we 
have done with him, you will see that 
Bill is, to use a Western phrase, " some" 
in a row. * 

Bedlow was rather a college idol of 
mine. Why I worshipped him has 
sometimes puzzled me since ; he was 
not so very clever or noble after all, and 
I believe has never done anything as a 
man to distinguish himself. But his 

little knot of intimate friends swore by 
him, and generally -he -was one of the 
most popular and influential members of 
his class one of the best hated too, as 
popular men are apt to be. 

Bill came up at the age of fifteen, a 
rosy lively lad from New York, where 
his father was a lawyer and politician 
(in America the terms are almost syn- 
onymous) of some position, and fair, 
though not large, fortune. He had under- 
gone his preparatory studies at a pretty 
good private school, of which there were 
then, and still are, a large number in the 
Northern States. Thanks to this school, 
Bedlow was better off for Latin, espe- 
cially Latin prosody, than most of the 
New Englanders ; he naturally knew 
more about the elegances of city life ; he 
was pretty well supplied with money or 
credit ; so on the whole he began by rather 
despising the bulk of his fellow-students, 
and setting up for an aristocrat. Bather 
an odd way, you may say, of acquiring 
popularity ; and, had Bedlow been a fool 
in other respects, or a weak, undecided 
character, he would doubtless have made 
sad shipwreck of his pretensions. But 
having a deal of " go " in him, and being 
quick enough to excel up to a certain 
point in anything he would take the 
.trouble to apply himself to, he ended by 
' ,ausing his assumption of superiority to 
be on the whole acknowledged. His 
first success, however, was not exactly 
of a literary nature. 

The undergraduate course at all Ame- 
rican colleges occupies four years. The 
four divisions are not called "years," 
but "classes," and the lines between 
them are much more strictly drawn, as 
we shall have further occasion to see by 
and by, than between the men of diffe- 
rent years in an English university. The 
second-year students are called sopho- 
mores ; why, nobody knows. The popular 
explanation used to be, that the name 
was compounded of the two contradictory 
Greek words most resembling it in 
sound, and had originally been applied 
as a term of derision. But an erudite 
Yale professor found out by dint of vast 
research that the epithet was formerly 
written sophimore, a discovery for which 


My Friend Mr. Bedlow : 

he took to himself great credit, and which 
greatly helped to elucidate the difficulty. 1 

These sophomores, or sophimores, or 
sophs (the usual abbreviation will serve 
to compromise the difference in ortho- 
graphy) have the traditional reputation 
of being the chief actors in such small 
amount of larking as goes on at Yale. 
Their particular speciality used to be 
hoaxing the freshmen. In all societies 
of boys or young men everywhere it is 
customary to play tricks upon new- 
comers ; but the American contrivances 
certainly went ahead of most European 
doings of the kind. Probably the nearest 
approach to them might be found in an 
Irish mess of the last generation. Some 
of the tricks were simply dishonest, 
such as chousing an unlucky freshman 
out of fifty cents or half a dollar under 
pretence of an "oil tax." Other diversions 
were, blowing up the hapless tyros with 
gunpowder, or making their rooms un- 
inhabitable for a time by means of 
asafcetida. Another favourite sport was 
to gain surreptitious admission into a 
freshman's room and make an inverse 
ratio of all the contents, after the manner 
formerly in vogue among sprightly young 
officers. One of the most innocent 
amusements was "smoking a fresh." 
When it had been ascertained (by the 
Baconian process of offering him a 
weed) that a particular freshman did not 
smoke, half a dozen sophs would with 
consequences which may be guessed 
combine to initiate him. 

But the pet joke was sham-tutoring. 
One of the oldest and gravest looking 
sophs, his dignity further enhanced by 
a pair of spectacles, green or otherwise, 
sent an accomplice to inform one of the 
freshmen that tutor (some imaginary 
name) wished to see him immediately. 
An invisible audience crammed the two 
bedrooms adjoining the sitting-room in 
which the soph received his supposed 
pupil, without asking him to take a 

1 The "speaking and writing" mania begins 
its ravages in the second year. Hence sopho- 
moric or sophomorical has come to be an 
American adjective to express anything even 
more bombastic and absurd than the usual 
style of forensic and congressional eloquence. 

chair, but in other respects very politely, 
and proceeded to ask him all manner of 
questions about his parents, and family, 
and himself, what were his means and 
prospects, how many shirts he had this 
was always a great point, and the num- 
ber of the poor fellow's under garments, 
five, six, or seven as the case might 
be, was carefully taken down as a subject 
for a future jest in short, anything 
that was likely to afford occasion for 
" trotting him out." 

Now in Bill's first term the sophs 
undertook to sham-tutor him, although 
he was by no means the usual kind of 
subject; a much older, much greener, 
and much poorer class was usually select- 
ed for this victimization. Perhaps they 
thought him so self-sufficient and over- 
convinced of his own sharpness that he 
might easily be taken in. If so, never 
were men more mistaken, for the fresh- 
man, after pretending to be duly awe- 
struck at the awful presence into which 
he was ushered, began to answer the 
questions addressed to him in a way 
which soon showed that lie was chaffing 
the sham-tutor. However, the pretended 
functionary went on with his interroga- 
tion, more because he did not know well 
how to get out of it than from a desire 
to continue a farce in which the tables 
were so turned upon himself, until it 
came to the subject of the inner vest- 
ments, when Bill, instead of a direct 
reply, innocently remarked, that he did 
not wonder at the faculty interesting 
themselves in the students' cleanliness j 
there certainly was great need of their 
interference ; he had noticed a great 
many dirty shirts, particularly among 
the sophomores, whose linen struck him 
as extremely problematical. At this 
the concealed parties could hold out no 
longer, but rushed out from their closets 
in great wrath, and with loud cries of 
" Hustle him out !" ejected Bill into the 
entry. But when they had got him 
there, the freshman, though smaller than 
any of his assailants, made such use of 
his fists as to astonish one or two of 
them ; not merely astonish, but incense 
them, and, the staircase-window being 
open (it was only a second floor), some- 

Or, Reminiscences of American College Life. 


body proposed that they should throw 
him. out of it, which was accordingly 
done forthwith. But Bedlow, who hadn't 
been used to that sort of uhing at home, 
took care to pull out a sophomore along 
with him, that he might have something 
soft to fall upon. The soph fell under- 
most and broke his arm ; the freshman 
got off with a few bruises. The affair 
was hushed up, and very few even of the 
students ever heard of it, but there buzzed 
around a mysterious rumour that Bed- 
low had somehow "served out" the 
sophs completely. They were always ob- 
served to give him a wide berth, and 
his own class began to regard him as 
,a hero. 

You will please not to infer from the 
above that American second-year men 
have a habit of throwing freshmen out 
of third-story windows. A set of youth 
less belligerent, less aggressive, less ad- 
dicted to anything like breaches of the 
peace than the Yalensians were in my 
time, it would be hard to conceive, much 
more to find. A personal collision even 
with a " town-loafer " was of very rare 
occurrence, among themselves still rarer. 
Looking back to my own feelings and 
habits of mind as an undergraduate 
there, I am quite sure that nothing short 
of the direst extremity, such as peril of 
my own life or another's, could have 
forced me to lay hands on a comrade, 
and I am equally sure that the same 
might have been said of half, or more 
than half, the students. So far as one 
can reason back upon the subject, I im- 
pute this state of feeling to three causes. 
First (I affirm it in all sincerity), religi- 
ous principle, a solemn conviction that 
it was unchristian to resort to personal 
violence, save when in obvious peril of 
life or limb. Secondly, a conviction 
nearly or quite as strong, that personal 
violence was ungentlemanly. Thirdly, a 
want of, not presence of mind exactly, 
but what you might almost call presence 
of body ; a want of familiarity with 
dangerous positions and bodily strug- 
gles. Cowardice I do not admit as a 
constituting element. At the same time, 
I do admit that the conduct above de- 
scribed may be very easily misinterpreted 

as the effect of cowardice (more's the 
pity !), and that the unfortunate results 
of such misinterpretation are now too 
plainly visible. The hot-headed South- 
erner, finding the people of the North not 
so ready as himself to resent a real or 
supposed insult with a blow, began at a 
very early period of our history to form 
his conception of them as wanting in 
courage. This idea gaining ground by 
repetition in each successive genera- 
tion, the insolence of the slaveholders 
gained ground pari passu, till the abuse 
culminated in the present state of 
things, when Northern representatives 
are obliged to carry revolvers to Con- 
gress to protect themselves. 

Bedlow, therefore, having founded his 
reputation as a wit and a hero at the 
same time, was able to rest on his laurels 
in the latter character ; in the former 
he felt bound to do something more. 
Among the various rhetorical paces 
through which we were put, one of the 
earliest consisted in declaiming, or 
" speaking pieces," which we had to do 
to a great extent, once a week at least. 
A few of the students took a school- 
boy pleasure in this, but the majority 
were much the reverse of delighted ; 
even those fondest of hearing their own 
voices in debates of their own composi- 
Uon were bored at being obliged to 
rehearse the compositions of others ; and 
still more bored to hear them rehearsed. 
Bedlow endeavoured to enliven the per- 
formance by selecting humorous extracts, 
such as Serjeant Buzfuz from "Pickwick" 
(which had just then appeared) ; but 
the professor of elocution, feeling the 
dignity of his lecture-room violated by 
the unseemly sound of laughter, forbade 
the young speaker to choose any more 
" comic " speeches. Whereupon, Bill 
swore that he would deliver a comic 
speech in spite of the professor. Next 
time, he selected a well-known bit of 
Irish eloquence : well-known, because 
it was one of the first in our freshman 
manual of extracts ; a speech in an 
action for libel, stigmatizing the libeller 
as worse than the highway robber. " The 
man who plunders on the highway 
may have the semblance of an apology 


An Eastern Legend Versified. 

for what he does. 'A loved wife may 
demand subsistence, a circle of helpless 
children may raise to him the supplicat- 
ing hand for food. He may be driven to 
the act by the high mandate of impera- 
tive necessity," &c. &c. And a little 
farther on it is affirmed, that the libel- 
ler's victim, "if innocent, may look like 
Anaxagoras to the heavens, but must 
feel that the whole earth," <fec. Such 
was the speech by Bill chosen ; but in 
reciting it, pretending to forget the 
words, he travestied it into utter non- 
sense. The professor did not quite 
comprehend him at first, for he began in 
alow tone, and had a Rachel orRobson- 
like habit of dropping his voice at times, 
till almost inaudible ; but, when the grave 
instructor did hear what was going on, 
he was horrified by the following : 
" The man who blunders on the high- 

way may have the hindrance of an 
analogy for what he does. A snubbed 
wife may command resistance ; a circle 
of yelping children may raise to him the 
suffocating hand for food. He may be 
driven to the act by the huge mammoth 
of impertinent necromancy." 

The professor rubbed his ears and 
eyes, hardly daring to believe those 
organs. Meanwhile, Bedlow had gone 
down into one of his sotto voces, and the 
next words audible were 

" If innocent, he may look, like an ox 
or an ass, to the heavens " Here 
Bill's speech was brought to an untimely 
close, for the professor, in great wrath, 
ordered him down, and threatened to 
have him suspended. But the good luck 
which seemed to attend Bedlow in all 
his scrapes, got him off scotfree. 
To be continued. 




'TWAS just when harvest-tide was gone, 
In Haroun's golden days ; 
When deeds in love and honour done 
Were blest with royal praise : 

Two equal heirs of perch and rood, 
Two brothers, woke and said 
As each upon the other's good 
Bethought him in his bed ; 

The elder spake unto his wife, 

Our brother dwells alone, 
' No little babes to cheer his lifo, 
' And helpmate hath he none : 

' Up let us get, and of our heap 
' A shock bestow or twain, 

The while he lieth sound asleep 
' And wots not of the gain." 

So up they gat, and did address 
Themselves with loving heed, 
Before the dawning of the day, 
To do that gracious deed. 

Female School of Art ; Mrs. Jameson, 227 

Now to the other, all unsought, 
The same kind fancy came ; 
Nor wist they of each other's thought, 
Though moved to the same. 

" My brother he hath wife," he said, 
" And babes at breast and knee ; 
" A little boon might give him aid, 
" Though slender boot to me.'* 

So up he gat, and did address 
Himself with loving heed, 
Before the dawning of the day, 
To mate his brother's deed. 

Thus played they oft their kindly parts, 
And marvelled oft to view 
Their sheaves still equal, for their hearts 
In love were equal too. 

One morn they met, and wondering stood 
To see, by clear daylight, 
How each upon the other's good 
Bethought him in the night. 

So, when this tale to court was brought, 

The caliph did decree, 

Where twain had thought the same good thought, 

There Allah's house should be ! 



I TRUST that some one who is capable of " 3. Since 1852 six hundred and ninety Stu- 

dealing with questions of Art, and who dents have entered themselves at the School, 

. . TJY j i 1*1 find. tii6 number Et th.6 present tiino is on.6 

IS not indifferent to the power which hundred and eighteen, of whom seventy-seven 

women may exert in raising or in cor- are studying with the view of ultimately main- 

rupting it, will draw our attention to taining themselves. Some of them, daughters 

the Female School of Art and Design of Clergymen and Medical Men, unexpectedly 

I'll i i r n v s"i COUlPtjllcd. t)Y 1 VBXlCtV OI CEUS68. to cUQ 

which has been opened at 37, Gower the jP own ' g^ooS and even to support 

Street, and of which the following ac- others besides themselves, have, through the 

Count is given in a paper lately issued instruction and assistance received here, ob- 

by the Committee : tained good appointments in Schools, or are 

enabled to live independently by means of 

" 1. This School, originally the female private teaching. The present daily attend- 

' School of Design,' was established by Go- ance averages seventy. 

vernment at Somerset House in the year "4. The success of the School has been con- 

1842-3, but, from want of accommodation, it siderable. In the last three years, the stu- 

was removed to adjacent premises in the dents have taken an annual average of twenty 

Strand, and, for a similar reason, was after- Local, and three National Medals, and, at the 

wards transferred to Gower Street in Feb- last Annual Examination, six of them ob- 

ruary, 1 852. tained Free Studentships. Six of them, more- 

" 2. Its object is twofold : I. Partly to over, gained their living for several years, by 
enable Young Women of the Middle Class to Designing and Painting Japanned Articles, in 
obtain an honourable and profitable employ- Wolverhampton ; one was for several years a 
ment; II. Partly to improve Ornamental Designer in a Damask Manufactory in Scot- 
Design in Manufactures by cultivating the land ; another supports herself by Litho- 
taste of the Designer. graphy ; and three are employed in a Glass 


Female School of Art ; Mrs. Jameson. 

Factory, where they draw and paint figures 
and ornamental subjects for glass windows. 
Besides these, there are many of the former 
students, who are now engaged in teaching in 
various Schools belonging to the Science and 
Art Department. 

" 5. Precisely at the time when the School 
seems to have struck root, and to be steadily 
widening its area of usefulness, the Committee 
of Council on Education have intimated 
their intention of withdrawing their special 
assistance from the School (amounting to 5001. 
per annum), and of finally closing it, unless it 
can be placed on a self-supporting basis. 

" 6. Two questions have therefore to be con- 
sidered : 

" I. Is the School of sufficient value to 
deserve an effort to maintain its ex- 
istence ? 

" II. If fairly set going as an independent. 
Institution, will it be able to support 

"A letter from R. REDGRAVE, Esq., R.A., 
bearing testimony to the value of the School, 
may conveniently be inserted here. 



10th day of February, 1860. 
"DEAR MADAM, In reply to your request 
that I would state my opinion as to the success 
of the instruction afforded to Females in the 
School of Art in Gower Street, I most will- 
ingly state that the School in all our Compe- 
titions, both Local and National, has ever 
borne and still maintains a high position. I 
am also aware that many females of the 
Middle Class have through it been enabled to 
earn a competent livelihood by their own in- 
dustry, as Teachers, Designers for Linens, 
Carpets, Papier Macho", etc., the School thus 
affording valuable assistance to a class of 
females, for whom there have hitherto been 
few means of providing. 
" I am, Madam, 

" Yours faithfully, 

" To Miss Gann, 

"Superintendent of the School of Art, 
"37, Gower Street, W.C.' 

" 7. In reply to the first question it may be 
stated, that over and above the immense im- 
portance of making every effort to provide 
channels of industry for young women, other 
Schools of Art are, on various grounds, inade- 
quate. Most of the young persons who attend 
this School, live at too great a distance from 
South Kensington to be able to attend there ; 
and there is no other School in London, ex- 
clusively for females, in which teaching is 
given for the whole day, on five days of the 
week, or in which the instruction is so ample, 
and the range of subjects so extensive. 

" 8. By an augmentation of the Fees (at 
present very low) for the day classes, and 

by a saving in house-rent, which might be 
effected by purchasing or renting convenient 
premises in the neighbourhood, the expenses, 
there is reason to hope, might, by careful 
financial management, be brought down to a 
level with the receipts. 

" 9. This, however, can be looked for only 
when the school has been started afresh on its 
new career and housed in premises of its own, 
repaired and fitted for the purpose. 

" 10. To purchase suitable premises and to 
make them thoroughly complete, a sum of at 
least 2.000Z. is required, to raise which the 
Committee of the School are compelled to 
appeal to the public. It is understood that 
the Science and Art Department is prepared 
to apply to Parliament for a grant of 25 per 
cent, on the cost of erecting the building. 

"11. A love of the beautiful is one of 
those endowments of our nature, which we 
may reasonably suppose is to be carefully cul- 
tivated with the rest. It is most certainly a 
right and laudable object to keep open every 
possible channel for the employment of young 
women. However anxious we may be to 
retain them in that private life in which their 
right position undoubtedly is, yet cases con- 
stantly occur in which they must either 
starve in obscurity, or come forth to struggle, 
and perhaps to descend in the social scale, 
through no fault of their own. The instruc- 
tions given in this School are eminently 
useful in preventing such misfortunes, and 
may be received and eventually turned to 
profit, without necessarily taking them out 
of their proper sphere. To throw away 
the ground won by many years of patient 
industry would be mortifying, if not foolish ; 
and it is hoped that this appeal on behalf of 
a School hitherto so ably conducted, and so 
conveniently situated for the North and West 
of London, as well as for the City, may be libe- 
rally responded to, not only by the residents in 
the immediate neighbourhood, but also by the 
inhabitants of the Metropolis at large." 

This quiet and reasonable statement 
could derive no force from any words 
that I could add to it. If it needed 
professional recommendations, it is sup- 
ported by the authority of Sir Charles 
Eastlake, Mr. Eedgrave, and Mr. West- 
macott. Clerical aid it has of the most 
effective kind. The Eector of St. Giles's, 
whose zeal and faith are well known, is 
chairman of the committee. But if I 
cannot help the cause myself, I may do 
it some service by connecting with it 
the name of a lady who conferred great 
benefits upon her generation, Avhose 
memory all who knew her even slightly 
would wish to cherish, and who cannot 
be more effectually, gratefully remem- 

Female School of Art ; Mrs. Jameson. 


bered than by any services rendered to 
this Institution. 

There are no charges more frequently 
brought against this age than these three; 
that it is an age of dilettantism, that it 
is an age in which criticism has banished 
creative power, that it is an age in which 
women aspire to a dangerous independ- 
ence. Everyone feels each of these 
charges to have some reason in it ; 
many of us may have discovered that to 
repeat any one of them, and to bring 
the best proofs we have of its truth, 
is, after all, of very little service to 
the time which we denounce, or to 
ourselves who belong to that time. 
When we can find a person who shows 
us some road out of dilettantism, into 
that of which it is the counterfeit ; out 
of criticism that crushes all creative 
power, into the criticism which reverences 
and fosters it; out of the independence 
of the sexes which destroys the work of 
both, into that fellowship and co-opera- 
tion which is implied in their exist- 
ence, that person ought to be welcomed 
as one who is fit to teach us and help us, 
because one who evidently cares more to 
correct evils than to point them out, to 
call forth good than to complain of its 
absence. Anna Jameson won this title to 
all grateful and affectionate recollection. 
Not in single irregular efforts, but by her 
whole life, she was combating dilettant- 
ism in its strongest hold, by showing how 
Art has connected itself with the most 
practical convictions of mankind, what it 
has done to embody those convictions, 
how it fails to satisfy them. She delibe- 
rately selected for the subject of her 
criticism not that which she could look 
down upon and contemn, but that which 
she could look up to and admire ; she 
taught the members of her own sex, 
who need the lesson almost as much as 
ours, that scorn is not the twin sister of 
wisdom, but of weakness. Vigorously 
and courageously identifying herself with 
much that men dislike or dread suffer- 
ing herself to be called one of the ad- 
vanced or fast ladies, who claim a position 
which was not intended for them she 
really did more than almost any to 
counteract the tendencies of which she 

was willing to bear the disgrace-^to 
counteract at the same time the male 
vulgarity which, under pretence of teach- 
ing women to keep their right place, 
deprives them of any place but that of 
their servants or playthings. 

The works of Mrs. Jameson, by which 
she vindicated her title to be the 
daughter of an artist, and by which she 
showed how much she had cultivated 
all the gifts which she inherited, are 
her " Handbook to the public Galleries 
of Art in and near London," her " Com- 
panion to the most celebrated Galleries 
of Art in London," her "Lives of the 
Early Italian Painters," her "Poetry 
of Sacred and Legendary Art," her 
" Legends of the Monastic Orders," 
her "Legends of the Madonna." The 
work which was to complete this series, 
and which probably will interest English 
readers more than any of its predecessors, 
is said to be in good hands, and will, I 
hope, appear with as few disadvantages 
as a posthumous work can labour under. 
The handbooks, and even the delightful 
volume of biographies, I leave to those 
who can do them more justice. The 
other books deserve to be looked at 
from the unprofessional as well as the 
professional point of view ; I might even 
say from the point of view which a 
member of my profession is likely to 

Legends will overwhelm history if 
there is not some one fairly to grapple 
with them, fairly to ask what they mean, 
why they have been permitted to exist, 
what lessons they impart. No policy is 
more foolish than that which pretends 
to ignore them, as if their existence was 
not a fact, as if that did not belong to 
history. By pursuing this policy con- 
scientious writers have not seldom pro- 
duced the effect which they have sought 
to avert. They have enlisted the sym- 
pathies of their readers on the side of 
fiction. Nay, they have done worse. 
Through indifference to the real meaning 
of legends they have become inventors, 
and very coarse inventors, of legends 
themselves. The story of the wolf 
suckling Eomulus and Eemus had no 
significance for them ; so they must 


Female School of Art ; Mrs. Jameson. 

give the boys a nurse, Lupa, fashioned 
out of their own brains. Philologers 
have at last discovered this danger ; 
they have learnt to appreciate the im- 
portance of legends as expressing the 
thoughts and beliefs of men ; they have 
seen that these thoughts and beliefs 
cannot be less worthy of study than 
mere occurrences, nay, that one is not 
intelligible without the other. Mebuhr, 
with a wonderful discernment of the 
limits between fact and fiction, has yet 
done more justice to the old Roman 
fictions than any of his predecessors. 

But there has been a strange deduc- 
tion from Niebuhr's doctrines. It has 
been assumed that the legendary is 
another name for the spiritual; the 
historical for the material. Those who 
feel that they need spiritual lessons and 
principles therefore begin to think that 
legends are worth at least as much as 
facts ; perhaps a little more : those who 
cultivate a severe veracity treat all that 
lies beyond the commonest experience 
as the product of men's high concep- 
tions of their own destiny ; in plain 
language, as not real at all. The former 
seem to believe anything, and yet are 
in hazard every moment of believing 
nothing. The latter seem to care for 
nothing but what is substantial, and yet 
suggest the thought that all which has 
produced most effect in the world, and 
has done most good in it, is vapour. 

Female reverence and good sense has 
done what men's scholarship has failed 
to do. Mrs. Jameson makes us feel the 
difference between the narratives of 
Scripture and the legends that have been 
grounded upon them. She does not 
treat the latter with scorn. She does 
not force any Christian or Protestant 
moral upon us. Had she done so her 
works would have been far less honest,. 
and therefore far less useful. The 
legends have their honour. < They ex- 
press thoughts about the spiritual world 
which have been working in different 
times. They are not all good, or all evil 
They have embodied themselves in 
paintings which rich men and poor men 
have looked at and learnt from. But 
the thoughts are not the spiritual world 

of which they testify. They presume 
reality as their basis. They could not 
have been if the spiritual had not first 
revealed itself in facts. Eeduce the 
facts to the level of the stories, and the 
last become unaccountable. Raise the 
stories to the level of the facts, and they 
perish together. Yes, and in doing so 
you destroy the hope that in the nine- 
teenth century, in England, at least, 
we can ever have an honest and an ex- 
alted school of sacred art. English 
landscape painters have been great 
because they have refused to sacrifice 
the facts of nature to conventional rules. 
Does not the greatness of Mr. Holman 
Hunt's picture, that which the most 
ignorant of us confess as much as the 
learned, arise from a refusal still more 
valiant? He is sure that the divine 
does not mean the artificial. He de- 
sires to believe that he shall be most 
reverent when he is most delivered 
from the fetters of artifice. Is not this 
the condition upon which our painters 
must paint, upon which we shall accept 
their paintings as speaking to us ? 

Mrs. Jameson then, I believe, did a 
great work for her age when she plucked 
the flowers, and with no cowardly fingers 
grasped the nettles, of middle-age le- 
gendary lore. If she had cared for her 
reputation as a Protestant, she would 
not have done the service in this 
case as in others to Protestants and 
Romanists both, which she has done. 
She adds one example more to the long 
catalogue which proves that those will 
serve a cause best who will incur the 
risk of being called traitors to it. Her 
courage was owing to the simplicity of 
her purpose. She knew that her own 
sex wanted the kind of help she was 
giving them to admire and discriminate, 
and therefore she did not stop to ask 
herself what sentence captious men 
might pass upon her. 

This object becomes even more appa- 
rent in her criticism. I own I do not like 
the title to the book which she wrote 
on the female characters of Shakspeare, 
" Characteristics of Women, Moral, His- 
torical, and Political." There is a grandi- 
loquence in it (as there was a senti- 

Female School of Art ; Mrs. Jameson. 


mentality in the previous title, "Loves 
of the Poet ") which does no justice to 
the writer or to the book. That book 
is in no sense a piece of vulgar Shak- 
spearian idolatry. Mrs. Jameson does 
not care to inform us how great her 
author was, or how he came to be great ; 
he can tell us all that himself. She 
assumes that he had something to com- 
municate which she would be the better 
for learning. She desired to understand 
her own sex better; to perceive more 
closely what is great in them, and what 
is little ;. how they become strong 
through weakness, and weak through 
the ambition of strength ; what qualities 
belong to them as women ; what are 
those individual traits, which ordinary 
writers confound through a vague admi- 
ration,, or a foul and brutal contempt. 
She saw that this knowledge was, for 
some reasons or other, given to Shak- 
speare ; given, certainly, for this reason 
that his countrymen and country- 
women might profit by it. They would 
miss it if they cared chiefly to say 
clever things about the author, or to re- 
peat clever things which they had heard 
from others ; they would receive it so 
far as they tried to do their own work 
in the world. It seems to me that this 
criticism for business must be better 
criticism than that which is the fruit 
of even the most refined perception, 
which is only artistic or literary. I 
do not know what those notes of Tieck 
are which are said to be found in a copy 
of Mrs. Jameson's book now in the 
British Museum ; but I can suppose 
that that accomplished man may have 
learnt from an Englishwoman some 
lessons which all his studies in Shak- 
speare and in- art had not imparted to 
him. I should like to know whether his 
coarse apprehensions of the character of 
Opheliay natural icnough to one who con- 
templated it chiefly with reference to the 
stage, would have sustained themselves 
against'the judgment of, one wb,o .lopked 
at it in relation to actual life. 

For the power of exercising this kind 
of judgment, Mrs: Jameson, must have 
been indebted to experience- piobably 
painful experience. In her earliest book, 

"The Diary of an Ennuye*e," written 
when she was Miss Murphy, and a 
governess, she was too ready to make the 
world a confidant of the restless yearn- 
ings which belong to one who is con- 
scious of undeveloped power and sympa- 
thies. She afterwards learned greater 
reticence, and, knowing greater sorrows, 
cared less to speak of them. But she 
was able to understand the meaning of 
books from what she had felt, and, what 
was of far more importance than under- 
standing the female characters of Shak- 
speare, learnt to know those of her own 
time. All that she had studied in paint- 
ing and poetry was more and more 
turned in the later years of her life to a 
practical use. Her lectures " On Sisters 
of Charity and the Communion of 
Labour," could only have been written 
by a person who had studied the mo- 
nastic legends, and the monastic history 
studied it with the direct purpose of 
getting all the good out of both which 
could be got for her own time ; with 
a steady conviction that all which was 
artificial in them, all which belonged to 
a mere notion of saintliness and not to 
work, cannot be appliable to our time, 
because it is not real, not godly. The 
text of these lectures is the sentence of 
St. Paul, " Neither the man without the 
"vornan, nor the woman without the 
"man, in the Lord." They are therefore 
strong testimonies against that separa- 
tion of the sexes which the mediaeval 
devotion authorized, by a person who is 
determined to do the fullest justice to 
whatever in that devotion had a really 
divine and human ground, and could 
stand the test of change in time, place, 
and circumstances^ 

These lectures happily attracted some 
serious attention. The self-denial of the 
writer in forcing herself to deliver them, 
so encountering the strongest prejudices 
of our sex and hers, had some effect; the 
work of Miss Nightingale in the hospitals 
of Turkey and of England, far more. 
Moreover, the lectures were maintain- 
ing, not a paradox, but a commonplace, 
which all persons admitted when it was 
stated, and yet which all knew to be 
habitually disregarded. If Mrs. Jameson 


Female School of Art ; Mrs. Jameson. 

had earned less popularity by her pre- 
vious works, if she had given less 
proofs of thorough acquaintance with 
her subject in this she might have 
counted at such a moment on awaken- 
ing an interest in the minds of not a 
few whom it was desirable to interest 
But she did not trust to a temporary 
excitement She was quite convinced 
that the cause she was advocating con- 
cerned the well-being of the whole land ; 
she was aware that it must therefore 
encounter that vis inertice in male and 
female minds which is so much more 
perilous than open opposition. She re- 
solutely kept alive attention to the sub- 
ject Last year she re-published her 
lectures, introducing them by a letter to 
Lord John EusselL It was* suggested 
by some weighty words respecting the 
influence of women, which he had 
spoken in 1858, at the second meeting 
of the Association for the promotion of 
Social Science. As the letter contains 
the last message of a very remarkable 
woman as it is written with the 
earnestness and solemnity of one who 
felt that it might be the last I propose 
to make one or two extracts from it, 
hoping that my readers will procure 
the book which contains them, 1 

The following passage deserves to be 
gravely considered by those who receive 
the dogmas of newspapers as if they were 
messengers from Heaven : 

"No injured vnves or suffering children are 
ever benefited by an appeal to the public, such 
is the fiat recently pronounced by an influ- 
ential periodical. The absolute tone of this 
assertion, as if it were some indisputable 
truth, strikes into silent acquiescence a timid 
unreflecting mind : but is it true ? Your 
Lordship's long experience as a statesman 
must have proved to you that it is altogether 
false. It may be true as regards individual 
cases. Too certainly an injured wife, who has 
suffered all she can be made to suffer, is not 
restored to happiness by ' an appeal to the 
public.' The wretched child, who has been 
sacrificed in body and soul by the mistakes 

1 " Sisters of Charity and the Communion 
of Labour." Two Lectures on the Social 
Employments of "Women, by Mrs. Jameson. 
A new edition, enlarged and improved. With 
a Prefatory Letter to Lord John Russell. 
Longman, 1858. 

and neglects of society, is not made good, 
healthy, or happy, by ' an appeal to the 
public.' Public sympathy in the one case, 
public indignation in the other, cannot heal, 
cannot recall the past : but is it not to the 
awakening of the ' public ' conscience by re- 
iterated appeals against such individual cases 
of irreparable wrong, that we owe the pro- 
tection of many women, the salvation of many 
children ? "With regard to other subjects just 
touched upon in the following Essays, we are 
not now called upon to demonstrate that such 
and such objects are right or desirable. How 
they shall best be carried out is now the 
question. It has been proved by experience, 
that where men have tried to accomplish some 
well-considered, carefully planned philan- 
thropic purpose, they have, in the long run, 
fallen into confusion, and found themselves 
stumbling, as it were, blindfold, amid ill-un- 
derstood, half-acknowledged obstacles and 
difficulties : and that where women have 
set about organising on their part some united 
action for certain very laudable purposes, they 
fall to pieces like bricks without cement. 
But when men and women, who together con- 
stitute the true social public, come to an 
agreement in any object, and heartily work 
together, it is then no partial, divided under- 
taking; it works its way surely from theory 
into practice, and does not fall back into a 
chaos of confusion and disappointment. Some 
of our public institutions remind one of those 
unhappy ships which are to be seen, I am 
told, in our great dockyards, constructed on 
no ascertained requirement or principle ; then 
taken to pieces, remodelled, remade, patched, 
new-engined, new-named ; rotten before they 
are launched, or leaky when launched. ' Sails 
or engines ?' that was the question ; and now 
we find that, if the vessel is to stem safely 
both winds and waves, we cannot do with- 
out both sails and engines, sails to catch 
the favouring winds of heaven, and engines to 
force a way through the opposing waters. So 
if men and women are united in combining 
and working any great social machinery, it 
will then work well These principles, my 
Lord, based on natural and immutable laws, 
were perhaps disputed yesterday, are faintly 
recognised to-day, but will become the com- 
mon faith of to-morrow. Therefore with 
regard to this 'woman question' so called 
as I have no misgivings, so I have no desire 
to precipitate the inevitable ; no wish to hurry, 
and by hurry ing perplex or defeat for a time 
that matured and practical result to which we 
all look forward. For myself, I have a deep- 
seated solemn conviction that the great social 
want of our time is a more perfect domestic 
union, and a more complete social communion 
of men and women ; and that this want, 
more and more felt through the thinking 
brain and throbbing heart of the people, will, 
in God's good time, be fulfilled by natural 
means, and work to natural issues of good 
and happiness beyond our present imagining." 

Female School of Art ; Mrs. Jameson. 


The following is even more important, 
both as a protest against a calumny, and 
as a testimony of personal experience in 
two different quarters of the earth : 

" It has been said in a popular, well-written 
review, that women consider themselves, and 
desire to be considered, as a separate class in 
the community, with separate interests, pur- 
suits, and aims, from those of men. We are 
reproached at once with a desire to assimilate 
ourselves to men, and a desire to separate our- 
selves from men ; and we are solemnly warned 
against the social evils and moral perils of such 
an assumption to ourselves and to the commu- 
nity at large. 

" My Lord, I deny absolutely, on the part 
of my countrywomen, any such desire, any such 
assumption. No more fatal, more unjust mis- 
conception could prevail, with regard to the 
views and feelings entertained by intelligent 
Englishwomen on their own condition and 
requirements. On the contrary, it is the desire 
and ambition of women to be considered in all 
the relations, all the conditions of life, domestic 
and social, as the helpmate. We pray not to be 
separated from men, but to be allowed to be 
nearer to them ; to be considered not merely 
as the appendage and garnish of man's outward 
existence, but as a part of his life, and all that 
is implied in the real sense of the word. We 
see the strong necessity in many cases, yet we 
do regret that the avocations of men accustom 
them to dispense with much of our sympathy 
and society, and that thus a great number of 
women are thrown upon their own resources, 
mental and social. Every circle of men from 
which women are excluded supposes a certain 
number of women separated from them. I do 
not find that this state of things has, hitherto, 
made men uncomfortable. Now, however, they 
seem, all at once, to be struck with it as an 
anomalous state ; and I am glad of it ; but 
surely it is not to be imputed to women as a 
fault, or as an assumption. I saw the effects 
of this kind of social separation of the sexes 
when I was in America. I thought it did not 
act well on the happiness or the manners of 
either. The men too often become coarse and 
material as clay in private life, and in public 
life too prone to cudgels and revolvers; and 
the effect of the women herding so much toge- 
ther was not to refine them, but the contrary ; 
to throw them into various absurd and unfe- 
minine exaggerations. This, at least, was my 
impression. I confine my observations as much 
as possible to our own time and country, else 
I might enlarge on these influences, and show 
that in Italy, as in America, the separation of 
the two sexes, arising from quite different 
causes, is producing even worse results. It 
struck me in Italy that the absence of all true 
sympathy, a sort of disdain felt by the men for 
the women, as the mere amusement of an idle 
hour, might be fatal to the spirit of liberty. 
The women, ill educated, thrown on the 
priests for sympathy, consideration, and com- 

]S"0. 9. VOL. II. 

panionship, were distrusted and contemned by 
the liberal party. The men could not live 
without the love of women it is rather an 
abuse of the sentiment so to speak but they 
aimed to live without the social ' comforts 
locked up in woman's love,' without the 
sympathy, esteem, or approbation of women. 
Of the deep taint of corruption, the gross ma- 
terialism, the discord between scepticism and 
the most ignorant superstition, and other even 
worse results, I forbear to say more in this 
place. I thought, when I was in Italy, that it 
might be difiicult to establish political liberty 
on such a rotten basis ; but it is fair to add 
that accomplished Italians, while admitting 
the whole extent of this social mischief, attri- 
buted it to the anomalous state of their poli 
tical and religious institutions. I write this 
while rumours of war are around us, and while 
the deepest sympathies of my nature are 
aroused in the cause of the Italian people ; 
but not the less do I feel that, let the issue be 
what it may, they cannot build up a perma- 
nent national and political existence except on 
a healthier social basis. I am speaking only of 
the general impression I brought away from 
America and from Italy, and do not presume 
to judge either country; only I should be sorry 
to see the same causes prevail and produce the 
same effects in this England of ours. The best 
safeguard against ruffianism, as against profli- 
gacy, lies in the true relation between men 
and women. There ai'e professions which neces- 
sarily divide us from men during some hours of 
the day. Lawyers, government officers, mer- 
chants, soldiers, sailors, even when they are 
married and have homes, spend much of their 
time out of them. They should be careful 
that it is not too much. Why should this 
separation be carried farther than is inevit- 
ab] 3 ? Why do clubs, academies, charitable 
boards, literary and scientific societies so tena- 
ciously exclude women, except when tolerated 
as an occasional and merely ornamental element ? 
Men may say they do say ' What prevents 
you women from having charitable, literary, 
scientific societies and academies of your own? ' 
But this is precisely the state of things which 
every wise man, every feeling woman, will 
deprecate. If, where no law of expediency or 
necessity require it, men studiously separate 
themselves from us, and then reproach us that 
we form, in mere self-defence, some resources 
for ourselves, what can ensue but the moral 
deterioration of both ? Let not woman be 
driven to this : we do not seek it, nor does it 
rest with us to avoid it." 

I am afraid I must not omit the 
following sentences. The regret which 
they will perhaps cause to some clever 
writer, who fancied when he had con- 
cluded his article and received the 
homage of his club, that it was done 
with for ever, may be salutary, however 


Female School of Art ; Mrs. Jameson. 

bitter. Few accomplished men care to 
inflict pain upon accomplished and noble 
women ; fewer still would like to think 
that those had suffered from it to whom 
compensation is impossible. 

"'In former days women did not usually 
read the satires written by men against our 
sex ; they were too gross in soine instances 
too atrocious even for men to endure, unless 
recommended by their classical latinity to the 
study of otir school-boys, or those who instruct 
our school-boys ; but reviews and journals are 
now a part of the reading of all well-educated 
people ; they lie on every drawing-room table. 
A woman takes up one of these able periodi- 
cals, expecting to find instruction, moral suste- 
nance, religious guidance. Possibly she lights 
upon some article, wrjtten, not in Latin, but in 
choice and vigorous English, by one of those 
many clever young writers who, it is said, 
have come to a determination 'to put down 
women.' Here she finds her honest endea- 
vours to raise her position in life, or to reclaim 
her fallen sisters, traduced and ridiculed. She 
perceives that these gentlemanly adversaries 
do not argue the question of right or wrong ; 
they simply use a power for a purpose. She 
sees the wit and ability she admires, the supe- 
rior power to which she would willingly look 
up for help, here turned against her ; the 
privilege of working out good in any path but 
that which obsolete custom has prescribed to 
her is positively refused. If her success in any 
such path be undeniable, it ia acknowledged 
in an insolently complimentary style as an 
exceptional case ; while the mistakes or 
failures of certain women are singled out as a 
theme of the bitterest ridicule, and visited 
upon all. Well ! the woman who reads this 
well-written, brilliant, ' unanswerable ' article, 
is perhaps at the very time working hard with 
all the power God has given her, trained by 
such means as society has provided for her, 
to gain her daily bread, to assist her strug- 
gling family ; perhaps she may be sustaining 
an indigent father, or paying the college debts, 
or supporting the unacknowledged children of 
a dissipated brother (we have known such cases 
though we do not speak of them). She reads, 
and the words, winged by eloquence and en- 
venomed by a cynical impertinence, sink into 
her heart, and leave an ulcer there. It is not 
the facts or the truths which offend, it is the 
vulgar flippant tone, the slighting allusion, the 
heartless 'jocosity' to borrow one of their 
own words with which men, gentlemanly, 
accomplished, otherwise generous and honour- 
able men, can sport with what is most sacred 
in a woman's life most terrible in a woman's 
fate. Those who say to us, ' Help yourselves ! ' 
might say in this case, ' Retort is easy ! ' It 
is so too easy ! Suppose a woman were to 
take up the pen and write a review, headed in 
capital letters, 'MEN in the 19th Century!' 
and pom ting to absurd mistakes in legislation; 

to the want of public spirit in public men ; to 
fraudulent bankruptcies ; to mad or credulous 
speculations with borrowed gold to social 
evils of the masculine gender, corrupting the 
homes of others, and polluting their own, and 
wind up the philippic with ' Of such are our 
pastors and our masters ' I Or respond to an 
article on 'Silly Novels by Lady Novelists,' 
by an article headed ' Silly Novels by Gentle- 
men Novelists ' ? True ! this might be done 
but God forbid that it ever should be done ! 
God forbid that women should ever enter an 
arena of contest in which victory, were it 
possible, would be destruction ! The aggra- 
vating words of angry women never did any 
good, written or spoken ; and of all things we 
could look to for help, recrimination were the 
most foolish and the most fatal. If men can 
sport with that part of the social happiness 
and virtue which has been entrusted to them, 
it is bad enough ; but I trust in God that no 
woman will ever profane the sanctities of life 
left in her keeping by retorting scorn with 
scorn, or avenging licence by licence, for that 
were not merely to deface the social edifice, 
but to pull it down upon our heads. 

" Meantime, those who look on cannot but see 
that fare is a mischief done which men have 
not calculated, and which women cannot avert. 
It is still worse when these accomplished 
writers stoop to a mode of attack which allows 
of no possible retort, and insinuate imputations 
which no woman can hear without shrinking, 
and against which self-defence is ignominious. 
Now, as formerly, reviewers perfectly under- 
stand this ; ' but,' men say, 'if women will ex- 
pose themselves to these attacks, they must 
endure them ;' so then, we may depend on 
' man's protection ' only so long as we do not 
need it ? I have known a lady who, bent on 
some mission of mercy, ventured, at an unusual 
hour, to pass through Oxford-street, and was 
grossly insulted by a gentleman who mistook 
her calling : but then, ' why did she expose 
herself to such an accident f. Why ? because 
there are cases in which a woman must do the 
duty that lies before her even at the risk of a 
derisive satire or a cowardly insult ; just as 
there are occasions when a man must march 
straight forward, though he knows he will be 
shot at from behind a hedge." 

This is strongly and eloquently writ- 
ten ; not without anger, yet more in 
sorrow than in anger. It cannot, how- 
ever, be entirely just. Where the article 
on " Silly Novels by Lady Novelists " 
appeared, I know not ; but it must have 
been intended in a different spirit from 
that which Mrs. Jameson supposed. An 
extravagant and highly spiced compli- 
ment was concealed under it. There 
cannot be the least occasion to show that 
gentlemen write silly novels. Every- 
body is aware of that. The world is 

Garibaldi and the Sicilian Revolution. 


full of them. But an ambitious critic 
wishing to propound something new, and 
at the same time to defend the honour 
of his own sex, might exclaim with 
something of triumph and satisfaction, 
'Talk as you please of your 'Adam 
' Bede,' your ' Mary Barton/ your ' Heir 
'of Kedclyffe/ your 'John Halifax,' 
'your 'Villette/ your 'Old Debt' 
'we have discovered that even women 
' can write silly Novels ! " Perhaps 
the instances produced did not esta- 
blish even this exceptional accusation. 
I do not deny that the evil spirit to 
which Mrs. Jameson alludes, has got 
possession of the minds of some of the 
ablest young men in England ; and, 
that any person, man or woman, who 
helps to exorcise it, deserves to be 
canonised. But it is not directed more 
against women than against men ; and 
it is far more fatal to those in whom it 
dwells than to those whom it tempts 
them to revile. My last extract will 
connect the main subject of this article 
with the Institution which first led me 
to speak of her. 

" I merely suggest these considerations to 
our Education Committees, and to the So- 
ciety for the Promotion of Social Science. 
But in regard to education, we Englishwomen 
require something more. We wish to have 
some higher kinds of industrial, and profes- 
sional, and artistic training more freely ac- 
cessible to women. We wish to have some 
share, however small, in the advantages which 
most of our large well-endowed public insti- 
tutions extend to men only. When the 
National School of Design was opened to 
female students, it met with the strongest 
opposition, and, strange to say, the principal 
objection was on the score of morality; one 
would have thought that all London was to 
be demoralised, because a certain number of 
ladies and a certain number of gentlemen had 
met under the same roof for the study of art. 
True, the two schools were in distinct, in far- 
separated apartments, but it was argued the 
pupils might perhaps meet on the stairs, and 
then, when going home, who was to protect 
the young ladies from the young gentlemen ? 
You, my Lord, may have forgotten some of 
the disgraceful absurdities which gentlemen 
and artists were not ashamed to utter publicly 
and privately on that occasion ; I blush to 
recall them ; I trust we have done with 
them ; and as I am sxire men have no reason 
to fear women as their rivals, so I hope women 
will, in all noble studies, be allowed hence- 
forth to be their associates and companions." 



THE Sicilian insurrection is, both in 
its moral and in its political character, 
an event of the greatest importance in 
contemporary history. Originated in 
the most legitimate protest of a whole 
people against the worst government of 
the present age, it teaches the oppressors 
and the oppressed that no contrivance 
of brutal force can withstand the una- 
nimous effort of a nation rising to vin- 
dicate its right; whilst, at the same 
time, it powerfully tends to link toge- 
ther the severed limbs of a great country 
Italy; and thereby materially to 
modify the whole system of inter- 
national policy in Europe. 

The chief events of the struggle being 
well known, I will limit myself to a 
brief sketch of the proceedings. 

On the night between the 2d and the 

3d of April last, a nucleus of Sicilian 
patriots, who had met in arms in the 
convent of Gancia at Palermo, to con- 
sider the opportunity of rising, were 
attacked by the police, who had traced 
them out. After an obstinate contest, 
and many severe losses, they withdrew 
to the country. The insurrection spread. 
The revolutionary bands, led by influen- 
tial landowners, were able to hold out 
for more than a month against troops 
disheartened by the consciousness of a 
bad cause. Meantime the news of tho 
Sicilian movement was rousing men's 
hearts throughout the peninsula. A 
wide agitation pervaded all the towns of 
Northern and Central Italy. " Help to 
the Sicilians " became the watchword of 
all active patriots. Subscriptions were 
opened ; volunteers from all parts of 

R 2 


Garibaldi and the Sicilian Revolution. 

the country flocked to Genoa. There 
Garibaldi, assisted by the efforts of the 
people, noiselessly organized his expe- 
dition. Eluding official interference, he 
succeeded in collecting arms and en- 
listing men. On the appointed day 
some of his followers took possession of 
two commercial steamers the Piemonte 
and the Lombardo belonging to the 
Rubattino Company of Genoa, and got 
them out to the open sea. At eve the 
volunteers were gathering in the gardens 
of the Villa Spinola, outside the town, 
where Garibaldi with his officers was in 
attendance. A number of boats was 
ready near the beach. At ten o'clock 
Garibaldi gave the signal, betaking him- 
self to one of the boats, in which eight 
brave seamen of the Riviera were 
eagerly waiting to carry their gallant 
fellow-countryman to one of the steamers, 
the Piemonte; and in a short time 
the whole band was on board with arms 
and ammunition. Crowds of friends 
men, women, and youngsters, reluctantly 
remaining behind were bidding God 
speed from the shore to the departing 
patriots, many of whom were leaving 
wives and children. The two brave 
vessels went proudly floating across the 
great main in the darkness of night, 
carrying on their decks the fortunes 
of a nation. Garibaldi and Nino Bixio 1 
both of them experienced sailors 
were watching at the helm, successfully 
struggling with a stormy sea. On the 
7th they stopped for coal and arms at 

1 Nino Bixio is a Genoese of a very honour- 
able family, and a relative of the ex-member 
of Parliament of that name in Paris. In 1848, 
when yet very young, he distinguished himself 
fighting with the volunteers in Lombardy, and 
was raised to the rank of captain. In '49, he 
followed Garibaldi to Rome, as an officer of 
his staff, and was wounded at S. Pancrazio, 
during the siege. In the years that followed, 
when there was no hope of action for Italy, 
Bixio, who from his boyhood had been brought 
up a sailor, undertook long and difficult voyages 
at sea, visited Australia and the Antarctic 
regions, keeping an interesting journal of his 
maritime expedition, and returned to his 
native town to work again for his country. 
When Garibaldi, at the beginning of last 
year's war, crossed the Ticino with his Caccia- 
tori delle Alpi, Nino Bixio was among the first 
to take the field. He has lately been slightly 
wounded at Calata Fimi. 

Talamone ; on the 9th at Orbetello ; on 
the llth, skilfully avoiding the Neapo- 
litan cruisers, they landed at Marsala. 
What took place after the landing 
namely, the joining of the bands of 
native insurgents with the Cacciatori 
delle Alpi ; the rapid march, and the 
impetuous attack with the bayonet 
against the royal troops on the slopes 
of Calata Fimi, taking one of their 
mountain-guns and putting them to 
flight ; then the skirmishes at Partenico 
and S. Martino, and the sudden appa- 
rition of Garibaldi on the heights of 
Palermo all this is familiar to English 
readers through the narrative of the 
Times' Correspondent. 

The strategic ingenuity of Garibaldi's 
operations to mislead the royalists con- 
centrated on the plateau beneath ; his 
mock-retreat from Parco, his wonderful 
march to Misilnieri, the unexpected 
assault at Porta di Termini, and his 
triumphal entrance in the market-place, 
the Vecchia Fiera, amidst the enthusias- 
tic cheering of the liberated population, 
are equally known ; then followed the 
street-fight for three days, the brutal 
and cowardly bombardment, the cruelties 
perpetrated by the troops on the citizens, 
and the glorious victory of the patriots, 
compelling the Neapolitan Generals to 
accept a capitulation, of which Garibaldi 
dictated the terms. I shall, therefore, 
abstain from a detailed account of the 
immediate facts, and will enter, instead, 
into the causes which have prepared the 
Sicilian revolution, and which explain 
its success. 

There have been two powerful agencies 
at work in the Sicilian rising : one local, 
and called forth by the iniquitous acts 
of the rulers ; the other general, and 
inherent in the movement of national 
ideas throughout Italy. The local ques- 
tion is one of long standing between the 
Sicilians and the Bourbonic dynasty. 
Earlier than any other European country, 
Sicily enjoyed the benefit of a regular 
constitution, the foundation of which 
was first laid by the Normans in the 
eleventh century. Their successors, the 
Swabian kings, and particularly the 
Emperor Frederic II., not only respected 

Garibaldi and the Sicilian Revolution. 


but enlarged the fundamental law of 
the country, and more regularly called 
the deputies of the towns, or commons, 
to a seat in Parliament. When, in 1266, 
Charles of Anjou, supported by the 
Pope, usurped the throne of the unfor- 
tunate Swabians, . enforcing by right- 
divine an absolute form of government 
on both Naples and Sicily, the Sicilians, 
who had been awakened to the energies 
of a free nation, put an end to Frenc